


Sick of Love

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Smut, F/M, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-07-11 09:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: If Emma’s not careful, she just might bump into her soulmate. Physically. And while she might like the idea of what comes with that—an almost psychic connection whenever they make skin contact—she’d rather not deal with the awful withdrawal sickness that can come when they inevitably leave her; she’s got a son, so she doesn’t have time for that. So she keeps herself covered and thinks she’ll be okay. Until she meets Killian, who does the same thing. Will their barriers protect them, or just hurt them more?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a tumblr post imagining a different kind of soulmate AU; I got inspired and ran with the idea. (original post can be found here: https://spartanguard.tumblr.com/post/175255336605/bluandorange-belindaforlesbo-bluandorange)
> 
> Written for Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2019. Hop on over to tumblr (I'm spartanguard over there, too) and check out the amazing art that SherlockianWhovian did for this story! Thank you, love!
> 
> p.s. Smut happens in chapter 3 ;)

The train slipped into the station, coming to an easy stop at the platform where Emma waited. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass window as the door opened in front of her, and adjusted her hair accordingly, making sure her long blonde tresses hung over her shoulders and framed her face just so—but not so much that she was completely covered; she wasn’t Cousin Itt.

People began to stream out of the car, moving on either side of where Emma stood, not unlike water flowing around a rock in a river. She held her breath in an attempt to make herself smaller, in hopes that would make it harder for anyone to bump into her. There was a slight jostle to her leather-covered elbow, but thankfully, that was all. Soon, the last tourist had left the car, on their way to whatever pretentious bar was in this particular Boston neighborhood; Emma didn’t know and didn’t care, and was headed the opposite direction—her suburban apartment after a long day of fruitless work.

Emma shuffled onto the train and slumped into a seat, pulling her jacket just a bit tighter around her as she tried her best to melt into the hard molded plastic. The more she could hide or shrink, the better; the train was always packed this time of day, making it all too easy to get bumped or shoved into the next person, so the fact that she’d gotten a seat was perfect—even better, it was on the end, so there was only one seat next to her. Because if there was one thing Emma Swan hated, it was being touched.

Actually, that was a lie—she had loved it, once upon a time. But God, she’d been so naive.

The train quickly filled up. Emma tensed when someone sat next to her, but the suited businessman seemed more interested in his phone, and just as keen not to touch her. Even in a society that placed a high value on physical contact, there were still those who shied away from it, at least with strangers. Emma, though, did her best to keep away from everyone.

If her phone had more than 10% battery, she’d have her nose buried in it like half the other people on the train. Like her neighbor apparently knew, that was also a good way to ward off any unwanted contact. But given it’s mostly-dead status, and a desire to leave that little bit there in case Henry called, she’d have to content herself with people watching; hell, maybe she’d find the skip who’d gotten away from her earlier.

It was mostly people heading home from work, likely about to enjoy the balmy early summer evening on balconies or patios; if they threw a glance her way, they’d probably think the way she was dressed for late fall was insane—not many people wore turtlenecked sweaters, jeans, and knee-high boots in July, even in Boston. She’d gotten used to the self-imposed swelter by now, though.

But no one had eyes for her, thankfully, least of all the couple standing in front of her. They stood side by side, one hand each on the overhead rail and the other holding their partner’s. They had soft, happy grins on their faces and it almost looked as though they were having a conversation with just their eyes—and they most likely were. Because that was what happened when you found your soulmate.

She shivered involuntarily, despite the heat and her unseasonable dress. Gah, she hated that word: soulmate. Because, of course, the universe had picked that one perfect person for everyone. You didn’t have any choice in the matter; that’s just how it was. Great if you find them; sucks if you don’t—and even worse if you lose them.

As a kid, it had been a pipe dream for a touch-starved orphan like Emma had been. Everyone grew up knowing the stories: that when you found your soulmate, physical touch created an almost psychic connection with them. Thoughts, feelings, even dreams could be shared through skin, and it only got more intense the longer the relationship lasted.

And she thought she’d had that, once. Now? She’d sworn it off; there were more important things to worry about.

She blinked her eyes and looked away from the couple, lest she get too far down Memory Lane to turn back. She focused on the view of the city flying by outside the windows, the familiar landmarks telling her she was close to her stop. Each building was one tick in the countdown until she could get off and head home, where central AC, her son, and an ice cold beer were waiting.

Finally, the train slowed down and came to a creaking stop at her station. She waited a bit for more people to exit the car, including the annoyingly adorable couple (something she was all too familiar with in her own life), and headed back out into the temperate air.

And then she saw her skip, in the mass of people heading out of the station. Guess home would have to wait; good thing she saved her phone battery.

She took off at a sprint, waiting to shout the douchebag’s name until he had no time to react before she was on top of him, bringing him to the ground and pinning him there without an ounce of skin contact. If this asshole was her soulmate, she didn’t want to know.

(Or to know if anyone was anymore.)

A few hours later, she finally slumped into her apartment and sighed in the blessedly cold air. Then she sniffed; was that pizza?

“I ordered from Regina Pizzeria; hope you didn’t mind,” Henry shouted from the kitchen.

“Did you tip?” she asked, tugging on the zippers of her boots and stepping out of them.

“Of course; I’m not an animal.”

She snorted; he’d definitely inherited her sense of humor. “Good.” Her stomach was growling, but she needed to at least get out of her jacket before she did anything about it. It clung to her in an unpleasant manner as she peeled it off, the sleeves turning inside out as they clung to her clammy skin; she just hung it up that way, letting the sweaty lining air out.

Henry already had plates set out at their kitchen island-slash-dining table. “Thanks, kid,” she said as she walked past him to the fridge, pausing to ruffle his dark brown hair. “And sorry again.”

“It happens,” he said with a shrug. She winced at that, despite the chilled air blowing from the fridge as she grabbed her beer; she hated that he was so used to her inconsistent work hours, but was so proud of him for being self-reliant. She still wasn’t sure how she’d been blessed with such a fantastic kid, but that was why she did what she did—not just her job, but protecting herself. She couldn’t make sure Henry grew up safe and loved if she was too caught up in her own shit.

“Is your homework done?” she asked as she took a seat on what had become designated as her bar chair at the counter. 

“Yup,” he answered, opening the box; plain pepperoni—their favorite. 

“Show me after we eat.”

“I know,” he groaned, rolling his eyes a bit, and grabbed a slice. Every now and then, there were moments like that where Emma was reminded that her 11-year-old was growing up fast. But for the most part, he was still her little boy: smart, funny, and with the biggest heart she’d ever met. She wished his dad could see him.

Like they did every night, they talked about their days, but mostly Henry’s—she loved to hear about what he was learning and the things he did with his friends. No one had ever taken interest in her life, academic or otherwise, until she wound up with the Nolans, and she vowed a long time ago to make sure Henry always had an attentive parent. 

“Avery had to go home at lunch; he got sick. It was gross, like you could see his—“

“Ugh, no—not while I’m eating!” (Lest she forget, Henry was definitely an 11-year-old boy.)

Henry sighed but plowed on. “Anyways, they sent him home and said he probably had a stomach bug, but he thinks it’s something else. He thinks he has lovesickness.” 

Emma froze for a second, but not too long in case Henry noticed. He knew she had issues with soulmates and she tried her hardest not to pass them onto him. But lovesickness—that was something of a trigger word. 

See, that was the other side to having a soulmate: if you went too long without physical contact with them, you got sick. Not just heartsick or lonely—physically ill. After a few weeks without touching your supposed true love, you started to develop flu-like symptoms that progressively got worse—the point of near immobility—until either you came back in contact with them or cycled all the way through it, your body mended but your soul a bit bruised.

It wasn’t uncommon to see notices in the “missed connections” section of Craigslist for people experiencing symptoms after a rare brush with their intended. Morbidly, it was also typical for old couples to follow each other in death, not being able to survive through the lovesickness that accompanied the loss of their soulmate after decades together. 

She was pretty sure she’d been through it. Most people were confident in that distinction, but Emma still didn’t know, because lovesickness looked and felt an awful lot like morning sickness. 

For the upteenth time that day, Emma shook her head, trying to clear away the ghosts of the past. “He doesn’t have it; you guys are too young.” The one perk to this whole cosmic system was that it couldn’t happen until after puberty. 

“I dunno; he was pretty confident about it. Said he kissed Violet on the playground last week so he’s probably taken.”

Emma chuckled. “It doesn’t happen that fast. He’ll be fine. But maybe watch what you eat at school, okay?”

“Okay. Can I bring pizza tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

The rest of their nightly routine went per usual: Emma looking over his homework, forcing him to take a shower before she took one too, then watching an episode of  _ Stranger Things _ before he went to bed. 

Maybe he was getting too old for it, but she still tucked him each night. “Love you, Mom,” he murmured, already half asleep. 

“Love you, too, kid,” she replied, placing a kiss on his forehead. Even if she shied away from that stuff herself, she never wanted Henry to miss out on those little endearments she never had. 

She took one last look at him before leaving his room. He was getting so big, and looking more and more like his dad every day; but when he was asleep, he still looked like the baby she’d once rocked in her arms. 

So that was why she protected herself. That was why she cut off physical contact as much as possible with anyone else. That was why she didn’t want to risk her heart like that again. Sure, she craved that kind of intimacy sometimes, but she’d made her peace that it a while ago. No lovers, no soulmates, just a few friends. Nothing that could potentially take her away from being the best mom Henry could have.

At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself for 11 years. She didn’t want to believe anything else, even though she was keenly aware of the heartbreak that lay under everything. 

She retired to her room and flopped down on her big, empty bed, falling asleep eventually. 

And if she dreamed that there was someone to share that bed with...well, she’d talk it up to her brain being weird. 

She didn’t do soulmates. 

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

“Seriously?”

“Oh, come on, Emma; it’ll be fine. You can play nice for one night.”

Emma sighed into the phone. Her sister-in-law, Snow—the living, breathing embodiment of peace, hope, and love—had a long track record of trying to surreptitiously shove eligible singletons Emma’s way. She was understanding about Emma’s avoidance of relationships and physical contact, and the need to put Henry first, but only to a point. By no means did she think that romantic love was the key to true happiness, but she herself had found her fairytale true love and its accompanying bliss; shouldn’t everyone experience that?

“Debatable.” And apparently, Emma would be subject to Snow’s fledgling matchmaking yet again at their weekly dinner. “What’s this guy’s deal?” 

“Oh, you know how David picks up strays.” They shared a giggle at that; it was true—not only did David work at an animal shelter, but he had a tendency to pick up wayward humans as well, Emma being a prime example. She was 15 when the Nolans legally adopted her. “But Killian is—well, he’s like you.”

Both Emma’s curiosity and hackles rose. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s not looking for a soulmate, either. So it’s not a setup or anything.”

“Uh-huh.” She’d heard that one before.

“It’s not!”

“Why do I feel like this is some sort of reverse psychology thing?”

There was a pause. “Was it really that obvious?”

Emma sighed again, chuckling slightly. “You know I know when you’re lying.”

“I know, I know. But you’re still coming, right?”

“Yes, of course.” One random guy wasn’t enough to put Emma off their tradition. Her only other option would be to sit at home by herself on a Friday while Henry was at a sleepover, and she wasn’t that lame, even if she was a 28-year-old single mother who hadn’t really socialized in over 11 years.

“Okay, good. See you and your wine in a few hours! Bye!”

Maybe someday, Emma would be able to soak up some of the effervescent optimism that her sister-in-law constantly bubbled. But today wasn’t that day.

Because now Emma had to pick a new outfit, and she was unusually annoyed. Given the muggy heat, she was going to let herself wear shorts and a tank top; David and Snow were the only people, outside of Henry, that Emma could let her guard down around, physically or otherwise. People only had one soulmate so there was no risk at contact there when David and Snow were each other’s, and even less so with David being her brother, even if not biologically; the universe may be a dick sometimes but at least it wasn’t gross.

But if someone else was going to be there, she’d have to wrap back up. These were the moments she wondered if it was worth it, keeping herself protected—if she died of heatstroke, it wouldn’t matter either way. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have normal human interactions with people, and it might not be so bad to go on a date or two—some kind of adult activity. David and Snow were proof that it wasn’t all bad, even if it was sickly sweet sometimes; she had more than a few moments of jealousy ever since they met, way back in high school.

But then the past would rear its head and she’d remember why she put herself through this. No, she was better off without.

She sighed and sadly pulled off the cute sleeveless blouse she was wearing. She didn’t usually do wear something so girly and was kind of looking forward to it. Although...the red flowers in it did match her jacket...

Giving it a shot, she tugged on a long-sleeved shirt, then slipped the blouse back on. The layered look was still a thing, right? And the blue background on the blouse matched her jeggings. It worked. She paused a bit to admire her reflection, then started to head out, grabbing her jacket and the wine from the kitchen before slipping on her gloves and heading out.

The AC in her old yellow Bug was cranked all the way up as she made the 20-minute trip to her brother’s house, tucked away in one of the nicer, if small, neighborhoods. She pulled into the driveway of their little bungalow and immediately groaned when she saw the car already parked there: an unfamiliar old Chevy muscle car that screamed “douchebag”.

Her mind’s eye was already conjuring the image of some alpha male gym rat, or worse, some preppy rich kid who was a third cousin of the Kennedys and made sure you knew it. She started bracing herself for a less-than-enjoyable evening in the mad dash between her car and the front door, lest she melt before getting inside.

But there was no one in the front room when she let herself in. “Hello?” she called out, carefully making her way through the house; crap, what if this guy had killed them or something? Thank goodness Henry wasn’t here. She started glancing around for blunt objects to use as weapons, until she remembered she had a full bottle of wine in hand; it’d be a waste of booze, but it’d do the job.

“Out here!” came Snow’s voice through the door to the back yard. Emma relaxed a little, knowing they were alive, but still didn’t let her guard down; that wasn’t something she did easily. 

Although, looking back, maybe if she had relaxed a little, she wouldn’t have been so tense and focused on her family’s well-being that she skipped the last step down to the patio, making her lose her footing, drop the wine, and fall—into unfamiliar arms.

Her hair fell over her face in a curtain, both protecting her from and blinding her to whoever had caught her. But the jacket she could feel under her gloves wasn’t something David would wear this time of year, and those definitely weren’t her brother’s boots or skinny jeans.

“Woah there, lass—you alright?”

And that really wasn’t David’s English accent.

Instinctively, she let go of his (admittedly firm) biceps and fell backwards, definitely sticking her hand in the shattered glass of the bottle—she could feel it cut through her glove to her palm—but putting a good amount of distance between her and this Killian guy.

She hissed at the cut, and quickly brushed her hair aside with the other hand to inspect the damage. The glove was wrecked, but she couldn’t tell what of the red stuff on her hand was blood and what was wine.

Shade fell on her as David and Snow hovered, but the stranger was the only one who intervened. “Let me see,” he said, and rached for her forearm.

“It’s fine,” Emma tossed back, more out of habit than anything. It certainly stung, but her biggest worry was that she’d have an uncovered hand.

“Your hand is cut. Let me see,” the man demanded, his tone just commanding enough to jolt her. Who the hell did he think he was?

Before she could protest again, he grabbed her wrist and tugged it toward him—with another gloved hand. That was...unexpected. She finally dared to look at him, but all she could see was a mess of dark hair and a strong nose as he inspected her palm.

“It’s not that deep, thankfully,” he assessed, and even from this angle, she could see his thick brows furrowing in study. “But we should still clean it up.”

And then he looked up at her, and all her desire to tell this cocky asshole off was put on hold. Because she was staring into what were probably the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, and that tender a gaze should not belong to someone she’d literally just fallen onto. He should be mad, shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that usually what happened? But, if she was reading this correctly, he was worried...about her?

Did she hit her head, too? What the hell was going on?

She just blinked and gaped at him, until David stepped in front of her to help pull her up. She didn’t shy away from his touch, or the hug he gave her once she was upright. “I’ll clean up the bottle; you let Killian take care of you.”

“Okay,” she mumbled back, and followed Killian back into the house. It wasn’t until they were in the upstairs bathroom that she came out of her fog—more specifically, when he was pouring rubbing alcohol on her cuts. “Ah—what the hell?”

“I tried to warn you,” he replied curtly, then lightly dabbed at the mess with a hand towel. She noticed that he hadn’t taken his own gloves off yet, despite somehow managing to get her trashed one off without her noticing.

“‘S okay,” she muttered. He was almost clinical as he cleaned the (mostly wine) mess from her hand and applied ointment, though it didn’t escape her notice that one hand was noticeably stiffer than the other.

“Alright, I’m gonna wrap it up, but I might need your help; this requires a bit more dexterity than this thing can offer,” he explained, holding up the stiff hand.

“It’s a fake?”

“Aye; a good one, but not perfect.” Part of her wanted to ask, but she swallowed down her untoward curiosity.

They passed the roll of gauze between the two of them until her palm was covered, but she gave him a surreptitious once-over while they worked: he too was dressed in an unseasonable black leather jacket, the jeans she’d noticed earlier, and a navy oxford shirt with the collar popped, buttoned to his neck.

“Aren’t you hot?” she asked as he secured the end of the bandage; it was a tight wrap, but not constricting, making her wonder where he learned first aid.

He just smirked, which cut a dimple into the gingery scruff that covered his sharp jaw. “Does that mean you find me attractive, love?” he tossed back as he cleaned up the tiny mess they’d made.

She huffed; maybe she was right about her first assessment of this guy—what kind of cocky jerk said that? (Even if it was true.) “Not what I said. It was a question; not a statement.”

He put the bandage wrapper in the trash and then gathered the soiled towel. “I’d explain it, but I think you already know the answer.” His eyes traveled down her body much like she’d just done to him, then intensely met her gaze, an expressive eyebrow arched almost in challenge.

Something about him made her squirm, but she couldn’t tell if it was in a good or bad way yet. Or if maybe she really was sweating to death in this outfit. 

He stepped toward her, and she sucked in a breath, instinctively moving away from him. “It’s alright,” he assured her, holding his hands up where she could see them as he continued toward the bathroom door. “Just going to toss this and head back outside.”

If the manner of dress weren’t enough, the fact that he was able to read her reaction definitely confirmed the fact: he was trying to avoid touch as much as possible, too.

“Yeah,” she answered, trying (and failing) to play it cool. “Uh, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, then turned and headed out of sight.

She sighed once he left. What the hell had just happened? What kind of guy just cleans wounds for people he doesn’t know, especially one who apparently held the same no-touching policy? 

And why did she let him? She was no stranger to cleaning up her own injuries—at least, the ones that didn’t require a trip to the ER. She was a mom, for god’s sake; she was usually the one fixing boo-boos.

She took a deep breath and let it out, trying to shake some of these weird nerves off. Then actually shook—her head, hands, arms, whole body. It helped, but she still felt a bit off-tilt. And she didn’t even have any wine to help her deal with it. Fuck.

But she couldn’t hide in the half-bath forever, so she fixed her hair in the mirror and then headed back to the yard. Killian was already there, seated under the umbrella at the patio table nursing a beer. Dave was manning the grill while Snow picked up the bottle shards.

“Hey, let me help—” Emma tried to intervene, but Snow brushed her off. 

“It’s fine; I don’t want you to get cut again. Just grab a drink and have a seat.”

Even though she couldn’t see Snow’s face, Emma was pretty sure it had a self-satisfied smirk on it. They’d probably just reenacted some romance novel trope and she could see another one about to play out—and Snow knew it.

Emma grabbed a beer from the cooler by the grill, making sure to quickly tease Dave on his mediocre grilling skills, and then turned her attention to the table. The smart thing for her would be to sit opposite Killian, keeping the full table and umbrella pole between them. But that would force Snow and David to sit opposite as well, and it was kind of an unspoken rule that they never did that; it made it too hard for one to grab the other’s hand and mentally share some piece of gossip or inside joke.

So Emma took her seat next to Killian, but made sure the chair was a respectable distance away from his. It was a little awkward at first, because he seemed just as (not) interested in conversation as she was, but there was still a heaviness to the air that had nothing to do with the humidity.

“Um, thanks again,” she started, not knowing how else to break the unsteady silence.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, brushing it off with another sip of his beer. Whatever softness she’d seen earlier was back in hiding; she couldn’t really judge him for it when that was her usual MO.

It got quiet again, until David started yelling and jumping away from the flames shooting up from the grill.

“Fuck!” “Bloody hell!” they shouted at the same time. 

David was fanning it with a potholder when Snow rushed to his side. “What the heck are you doing?” she chastised, then jumped forward and turned down the heat. “Are you trying to show off, you pyromaniac?”

The pair at the table snorted as Snow continued to lecture him about grill safety, even if they couldn’t hear half of it; the look on her face as she held tight to David’s forearm and stared him down said everything.

“Are they always like this?” Killian asked, his tone lighter than it had been a minute ago.

“Oh my god, always. And it’s been like this for 12 years.”

“Damn.”

Snow stormed off inside while David slunk back to the grill and pulled the steaks off of it.

“And they’re really soulmates?” Killian wondered, though she couldn’t tell if it was rhetorical or not.

“Yup,” was all she answered, and took another sip of beer.

Killian just hummed and stared at the condensation rings from his bottle on the glass-top table. There was something dark and faraway in his gaze; part of her knew it wasn’t her business, but a weird part of her wanted to cheer him up.

“Would you believe that those two are trying to set us up?” she said quietly and conspiratorially.

“Huh?” He looked up, blinking; it took a moment for his eyes to refocus on her. “Oh, aye; I had a suspicion.”

She wasn’t sure if she should be offended or relieved at his indifference. “Yeah, they tend to do that. So, you might wanna get used to it.”

He took another long sip. “David knows my feelings on that matter; I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

Emma snorted again. “Dude, I’m his sister. He knows exactly why I’m not interested in anything and that still hasn’t stopped them.”

“And why is that?”

“I—” She cut herself almost immediately, because she was just about to spill her life story to this guy who she’d met literally half an hour ago. She didn’t even like thinking about all that, let alone discussing it. So why was she so ready to spill all her beans? “I don’t really like talking about it,” she finally said, in a small voice.

“I know the feeling,” he answered, just as somberly. “Cheers to tragic backstories?” He extended his arm to her, bottle leaning forward in invitation to a toast.

“Cheers,” she said back, clinking the glasses together (but holding back a bit in case of another shatter). 

Typically, the idea of meeting someone with as much emotional baggage as she carried sounded exhausting; but with Killian, she couldn’t help but be curious. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to shun the idea of soulmates, but it was rare to go to the lengths that she and Killian were going to. She heard the tuts and saw the pitying stares from people as she went about her day, especially this time of year when it was so obvious. And she was usually good about not letting it get to her—all she had to do was see Henry’s face to remind her why she did it. She’d never met anyone else who did, though, and wondered a bit at what Killian’s reasons were.

But, as she reminded herself, she’d just met the guy; it was hardly appropriate to pry when she wasn’t about to reveal anything herself. Thankfully, Snow arrived at the table at that moment with a tray covered in food, and they dug into the meal, maintaining a casual level of chat the whole time. It turned out that David met Killian while he was out for a run; David was the crazy type to go out at dawn, so when he ran into someone else doing that, it took his notice and they bonded almost immediately. That wasn’t a rare thing in David’s life, but based on the bashful expression on Killian’s face, she could tell it was for him. 

After dinner had been cleared away and the pie brought out, Snow declared, “Oh, this was so nice. I’m so glad you were able to come, Killian.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, milady; thanks for the hospitality.”

“Oh, don't mention it,” she waved off. “I just wish he could have met Henry, too!”

“Who’s Henry?”

“My son,” Emma interjected. Who would probably also try to pull Killian into their family sphere; he was a lot like her brother in that regard. “He’s at a friend’s tonight, but this is our weekly tradition.”

“I’m not intruding, am I?” He seemed worried all of a sudden.

“No,” the other three were quick to assure him. “Besides,” Snow continued, “it seems like you're fitting right in. You two seemed to be getting on well,” she added with a wink.

“Too much, Snow,” David muttered beside her, focusing on clearing dishes.

“What? I’m just saying—”

Gently, David placed his hand over hers and found her gaze. It was pretty obvious again to imagine the private conversation they were having, but it still made Emma feel like she was invading their privacy, so she went back to picking at her pie crust. A glance at Killian saw him doing the same.

After a long awkward silence that the couple was completely unaware of, David removed his hand and started gathering plates. “Well, I mean what I said,” Snow continued, albeit a bit less forcefully. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

“I appreciate that,” he said softly, blushing a bit if she wasn’t mistaken—it was hard to tell in the shade of the umbrella if it was that, or just overheating. “I’ll be sure to bring better beer next time, too; is this really what you Yanks consider good ale?”

“I heard that!” David shouted from the open kitchen window.

“‘Yanks’?” Emma teased. “You sound like you just got off the boat from England.”

“I did,” he quickly replied. “In fact, it’s still docked in the harbour.”

“It’s been—what, a month?” Snow added.

“About that, yeah,” he confirmed. “And I still haven’t managed to find anything better than barley water to drink.” He glanced down at the label of his beer. “Sam Adams? Sounds like a ponce.”

“Mm, those are fighting words around here,” Emma threw back with a grin; she hardly even noticed how fast, or how easy it was, to slip into banter with him. “And I think we already know who won that war.”

“Yeah, but we got the good beer, so it’s probably a draw.”

It was kind of amazing how quickly they fell into casual conversation, especially when she usually hated insincere smalltalk. Killian was funny and charming, and despite the apparently short time they’d known each other, always had a ready quip for David. It was kind of adorable seeing the way his eyes sparkled and the fine lines next to them crinkled as he laughed.

Wait, what? Admitting he was attractive was one thing—not like anyone could argue against it—but...being endeared to him? That was a whole other level of nope she didn’t want to deal with.

But then he told another joke and that concern was put back on the backburner.

Eventually, the evening wrapped up, and Killian cited work as a reason for leaving early. She kind of felt bad—ever since she’d mentioned the weekly tradition thing, she could see an uneasiness in his eyes that told her he felt like he was trespassing; she knew it because it was how she felt in most of the actual family homes she’d been in growing up, and for a long while at the Nolans, even after the ink dried on the adoption forms. 

“I hope he didn’t feel like he had to leave,” Snow said, echoing Emma’s thoughts, while the two of them were doing the dishes—with no more threat lurking, Emma had removed her other glove and her jacket, finally feeling a bit cooler. “He’s still so new here, and I don’t think he’s had time to make many friends yet.”

Part of Emma wanted to protest on his behalf—she still remembered being so overwhelmed by the Nolans initial drive to introduce her to anyone and everyone; even to this day, she only maintained a few good friendships and only a handful of casual ones. If Killian was as skittish or uncomfortable in that regard as she was, he wouldn’t want to be paraded in front of half the city.

But she also knew how good it was to find that kind of connection and support with someone like she had with Snow; they were close even before the discovery of her and David’s soulmate status. Emma didn’t doubt he had friends back in England, but having someone stateside would no doubt make the transition easier; it definitely would have as a kid.

“Well, at least he’s got us,” she finally answered. 

Friends. She could totally do friends.

Right?


	2. Chapter 2

Wrong.

See, Emma had told herself that under the assumption that she’d only be seeing Killian once a week, in the controlled setting of Snow and Dave’s house, with them and Henry as buffers. That they'd be able to keep it completely chill and casual—sharing conversation over beer, maybe someday discussing their apparent shared aversion to soulmates, and who knows, getting drunk and having a makeout they don’t remember the next day. You know, keeping things safe.

Okay, maybe that last one was just something that had happened in her dreams—ones that were usually populated by whichever Marvel character was the focus of Henry’s obsession at the time, because damn did the women in their casting department know what they were doing. However, in the days following that first encounter, Killian’s face had replaced that of Thor in her fantasies, without conscious thought.

She was sure a therapist could have a field day with her, and would probably say that by fantasizing, she was keeping things in a risk-free environment where she had control. Which she was vaguely aware of. But honestly? It was a little annoying how easily he slipped in there, because the things she imagined and dreamed them doing...if she didn’t blush the next time she saw him, it’d be a miracle.

But she had until Friday to get that under control, and it was only Wednesday. That was totally doable. (Just like him...oh god, she needed to stop.)

Fate had other ideas in mind, though; it always does. Because of course, the skip got a little too aggressive while she was trying to take her down. How was Emma supposed to know the other woman carried a can of Monster in her purse? Or that it made an excellent blunt object? Despite getting whacked in the head, Emma still managed to bring her in. But the arresting officer took one look at the growing bruise on her forehead, and the blood she didn’t even realize was pouring out of it, before sending her to the ER for stitches and to check for a concussion.

Emma grumbled the whole time they drove her over, but knew it was better to be safe than sorry; she’d do the same if it was Henry in her place. And while she’d normally be worried about going to any place that involved a lot of contact, at least they had to wear gloves there.

After dealing with the typical harried nurse asking the requisite questions—any allergies, what medications was she on, was there a chance she could be pregnant (ha!), could she have lovesickness (double ha!)—she expected to see the worn-out woman again, who would inevitably fix her up, lecture her about living dangerously and/or her unseasonable attire, and then send her on her way. She was not expecting the curtain to pull back and reveal Killian, reading at her chart, wearing scrubs and a white coat.

“I see you need stitches, Miss Swan...Emma?” He looked up at her, surprised when he saw it was her—which also made her realize they’d never exchanged last names. 

“Hey, Dr.…” she had to squint to read the embroidery on his coat. “Jones.”

“Bloody hell, lass; what did you do?”

Like their first meeting, he jumped into action, tossing aside the clipboard and immediately inspecting her injury. She hated the deja vu this was giving her.

Even if this gave her a better look at the light freckles and the way his ears came to an almost elfin point. 

Whatever.

“Just a hazard of the job,” she said, hoping to downplay it; this certainly wasn’t the first time a skip had sent her here, and wouldn’t be the last.

“Hardly seems like a safe line of work,” he tutted, gently poking the mess on her head with his rubber-gloved hand. He hit a particularly sensitive spot, drawing a wince. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Yeah, you’re definitely going to need a few stitches. I’ll be right back.”

He returned shortly with the necessary materials and got to work. “I’ll have to numb this, but that should be the most painful part, aside from getting smacked in the face with...what hit you?”

“An energy drink.”

“Huh; that’s a new one.”

“Really? I figured they see everything in these kinds of places.”

“Oh, we do; but people are endlessly creative.”

She giggled, but it quickly went away when the numbing injection came, turning into a hiss. “Did you distract me on purpose?”

“Aye. Figured it was better than surprising you like last time.”

Her hand throbbed at the memory; it was mostly healed but she was still keeping it wrapped up. “I guess this tells me why you knew what to do right away.”

“Yeah,” he said, but she could tell he was focusing on the task at hand, and could feel the gentle tugging of the needle and sutures as he started to work—though that was all she could feel, thankfully. “And I can see why you were such a good patient; I get the impression you’re used to it,” he tossed back, smirking a bit.

“Hey, I’m not THAT clumsy; only when it comes to beverage containers, apparently.”

“I’ll be sure to keep my flask away from you, then.”

“A flask? What are you, a sailor?”

“Former Navy, yes.” 

Okay, she had to stop making these sweeping generalizations about him if they were all going to be proven true. “Wow; cool.”

“For the most part, yeah; some places were rather hot, though.”

She wanted to laugh but not if it meant moving while she was pretty sure a needle was in her skin, so settled for the stillest chuckle she could manage. “Did they teach you dad jokes in the Navy?”

“No, mostly just medicine.”

“This is the British Navy, right?”

“The Royal Navy of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, yes.”

“Then how’d you end up over here?”

There was another, rougher tug on her laceration, but then Killian pulled away. “You’re all stitched up,” he said, but then he swallowed. “The Navy doesn’t have a ton of use for one-handed doctors, unfortunately, but they will give you a decent pension with your honorable discharge.”

“Well, that’s awfully ableist of them.”

“You won’t hear me disagreeing,” he concurred as he took off his gloves and cleaned up; she noticed that his false hand did have some articulation, but not a ton. “So, there wasn’t much left for me there after that happened, and I figured there must be some reason the colonists rebelled. So, here we are.”

She could tell he was mostly telling the truth, but definitely leaving parts out. “That’s a pretty flimsy reason to pack up and move across the ocean. What did your family say?”

He shrugged as he wrapped up the last of the suturing kit. “No one left to talk me out of it.”

A pit formed in her stomach and she realized they had a bit more in common. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

He cocked his head as he returned from disposing the soiled instruments. “What about David and Snow? And your son?”

“Oh, they’re amazing; but I grew up in the foster system. I didn't end up with the Nolans until I was 15.”

“Ahh, you’re another lost one.”

The casual way he said it took her aback briefly. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. Are...are you?”

He pulled his little flashlight thing out of his coat pocket (she had no idea what it was really called) and fiddled with it a bit. “My mum died when I was young; dad left a few years later. So it was just me and my brother, but I entered the system when he joined the Navy. Then followed him in a few years later.” 

His somber tone, paired with the previous revelation about no more family, was enough to let her know that wasn’t quite all of it. “Can I ask what happened to him?” 

“After I check you for a concussion.” 

“Ugh, do I have to?”

“Yes,” he commanded.

She rolled her eyes, but let him perform the exam; better safe than sorry, right? “You’re clear there,” he told her, after a few simple tests that included pointing that damn flashlight in her eyes. And in a quieter voice, continued, “IED in Iraq. Head injury. I tried, but...I couldn’t save him.”

Well, that explained why he was so insistent on the concussion exam. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It is what it is,” he said, in a tone that suggested he was convincing himself of that as much as her, as he pocketed his flashlight and grabbed her chart again. “At least I can still help save other people.”

“Wish you’d been there when Neal came in,” she blurted, thinking out loud. Then mortification washed over her as she realized what she said. She never talked about what happened to Neal—only with Henry, and only when he asked.

“Guess it’s my turn to extend the condolences, then,” he said softly. 

She let go of the breath she’d been holding; most people were quick with empty platitudes, so it was almost refreshing to hear something sincere. And there it was again—that same intense, understanding look in his eyes from the other day; it felt like he was reading her like a book, and it was more than a little unsettling—but not in a way that scared her, oddly enough. Still, it was overwhelming enough for her to avert her gaze. “Don’t we make a pair, huh?” she scoffed. 

“I wouldn’t let Snow hear you say that if I were you,” he jibed. She could hear the laughter in his voice but didn’t dare look up just yet.

“She’s probably already got the wedding invitations on order.”

He laughed for real this time, a deep, hearty chuckle. “Hope they aren’t nonrefundable.”

“Same.”

He excused himself to go write up her prescriptions—an antibiotic and some extra-strength headache medicine—and returned a few minutes later with an easy smile on his face. He went back into doctor mode as he gave her care instructions for the next few days and weeks, and then asked, “Any questions?”

“Yeah, but it’s not related to any of that.”

He tilted his head in question. “What is it?”

“How exactly do you manage to do all this and...not touch anyone?” She’d been wondering it ever since he came into the room the first time. “It seems like a job like this would put you at higher risk of skin contact.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it does, to some extent,” he explained. “But when you’re already down a hand, that cuts the odds in half. And I just double up on gloves the rest of the time.”

She I thought his glove looked kind of thick. “Gotcha. Thanks for telling me; I was just curious, is all.” A slightly awkward silence settled over them; she felt like she needed to divulge something, after everything he had, but after dropping a Neal reference, she was kind of spent in the emotional backstory department. “So...no one has tried to claw at that pretty face of yours?”

He smiled at that, arching an eyebrow in apparent amusement. “No, thankfully; I’ve gotten fairly good at evasive maneuvers, ever since my brother gave me this,” he said, pointing to a faded scar on his cheek.

“Yeah, that was something I figured out pretty quick, too. But I guess my training never covered giant soda cans.”

“Well, that’s something to work on, then. Just not until this heals, okay?”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she said with a salute

“Please, I was only a Lieutenant.”

“Eh, Captain suits you better. And thank you for this again.”

“Again, it was my pleasure, Swan.”

She casually hopped off the exam table, but apparently, her head wasn’t as ready for that as the rest of her body, and the room began to spin as soon as she was on her feet. She could feel herself swaying, but before her knees had a chance to buckle under her, a firm grip and strong arms stabilized her.

“Woah—easy there,” he cautioned. “You may not have a concussion, but that’s still a nasty bump.”

She took a deep breath as the vertigo dissipated, but the next one caught in her throat when she realized that he was the one holding her—and that she kind of liked it. Her eyes were immediately drawn to his hand and prosthesis, the way they were curled around her arms and holding her in place, but were still gentle.

He must have taken her staring for shock, because he quickly let go and stepped out of her space. “You okay now?”

“Y-yeah,” she said, shaking her head to clear the momentary fog—and to try to get rid of the sense of loss she felt as soon as he’d moved away. “I guess I better get going with these,” she said lamely, nodding toward the prescription slips she’d shoved in her pocket.

“Yeah; the pharmacy closes soon.” His voice was a bit rougher than it’d been a minute ago, and that faraway look was back in his eyes. “See you Friday?”

“Yeah, see you then,” she said, then left as quick as she could.

Shit. How was she going to be able to keep things casual if he continued to have that kind of effect on her?

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

When Friday rolled around, she almost wanted to feign sickness to get out of going. His steady hand had also found its way into her dreams, as well as what was surely a strong, warm embrace. There was no way she could face him now.

But she knew Henry would see through any excuse she tried to throw at him—he had inherited her built-in lie detector to some extent—so she just swallowed her pride, grabbed her usual bottle of wine, and they headed off. 

“Whose car is that?” Henry asked as soon as they pulled up.

“Killian’s,” she answered grumpily.

“Is he why you didn’t want to come? Is he a dick?”

“Hey, language!” she scolded. “And he’s not; he’s...I dunno, the opposite, or something. You’ll see.”

Her brother had finally bowed to the summer heat and turned on his air conditioning, so everyone was seated around the living room when they got inside: Dave and Snow on their respective recliners (Emma joked they were their Carl and Ellie chairs), and Killian on one end of the sofa, leaving the rest of it open for her and Henry.

David and Snow got up and exchanged the requisite hugs, complete with Snow fussing over Emma’s stitches, but Killian hung back, understandably. Seeing him back in his leather jacket and dark wash jeans again was almost a jolt from how soft he’d looked in his scrubs, but she knew why he’d default back to his armor; heck, she’d even put on some more tonight, opting for a long-sleeve crewneck instead of the v-necked t-shirts she’d been wearing. 

He gave her a simple “Swan” as a greeting, and she nodded back, before introducing Henry to him. “A pleasure to meet you, lad,” he said, offering his gloved hand. Henry studied it a minute, then cast a curious glance at Emma before taking it. Knowing Henry, he was already putting two and two together; with any luck, she’d be able to keep him out of Snow’s plotting, at least.

Emma left to the kitchen to pour wine for her and Snow, but when she got back, Henry was giving Killian the full 21 questions: where was he from, what did he do, all that jazz.

“How did you lose your hand?”

“Henry David,” she said in warning—he knew better than to ask stuff like that—but Killian didn’t seem fazed. 

He leaned toward Henry conspiratorially. “Well, don’t tell anyone else, but...a crocodile took it!” His voice was full of childish humor and even his eyes sparkled with it. Henry gasped and then laughed, aware it was a joke but no less entertained.

“So does that make you Captain Hook?” he asked.

“Perhaps; my ship _is_ named the _Jolly Roger_.”

As soon as that came up, Henry’s attention was completely taken by the fact that there was a potential pirate sitting next to him and all thoughts of more personal questions went out the door, thankfully. And bless Killian, he answered all of Henry’s questions seriously (excluding the first one) and didn’t seem put off the boy’s endless curiosity like a lot of adults were; this was a kid who had to transfer classes in first grade because his old-fashioned teacher couldn’t tolerate all his questions. But Killian handled it with ease.

The only thing that could take Henry off the thought of high seas adventure was food, and he made a mad dash to the table once dinner was ready. “Thanks for that,” Emma told Killian after they were left in Henry’s dust. “I know he can be a bit much.”

“Nonsense; he’s a brilliant lad,” Killian waved off. “You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am.”

It didn’t go without notice that Killian had provided the beer for this meal. She stuck to her wine while they ate, but afterwards, as she watched David and Henry throw around a football in the front yard from the double rocker on the porch, she gave his a try. And yeah, it was significantly better.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Killian was standing by the door, leaning against the brick siding and sipping from his own bottle. One long leg was crossed over the other, highlighting just how well those skinny jeans fit him. Something about it was insanely hot, both literally and figuratively. 

And it only got worse when he pushed off the wall with his hips and sauntered forward. “Much better than David’s alcohol-flavoured water, no?”

“Oh, for sure,” she agreed. “Definitely what you need on a day like today.” Granted, she probably shouldn’t be drinking booze at all with how much she was sweating, but she’d long since learned how to make sure she didn’t dehydrate in the summer—and, given the fact that he wasn’t keeling over, either, so had Killian.

“Is this seat taken?” he inquired, nodding at the empty half of the rocker.

“Go ahead.”

For a few minutes, they just sat there in companionable silence, watching the continued passes in the yard, until Killian finally said, “They know that’s not real football, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna show up next week with a soccer ball, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think I don’t already have one in my car?”

“Why am I not surprised?” she chuckled. “But that’s another thing you’d have to fight David over.”

“I figured as much,” Killian sighed. “He’s as stubborn as my brother.”

“Must be a big brother thing, then.”

“Aye, probably.” He took a long pull on his beer. “David’s great with Henry, it seems.”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “He was kind of born to be an uncle; he’s been there since day one. I can only imagine how great a dad he’ll be someday.”

“If you don’t mind my asking—where is Henry’s father?”

It wasn’t an uncommon question; more than one snoop-nosed PTA mom had asked that and sneered. Killian was the first to ask it in a non-judging way. “He’s gone. Neal—the guy I mentioned the other day; that's him.”

He nodded, understanding. “I probably should have guessed from your tone. What happened?”

She swallowed; it had been so long since that night.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he was quick to assure her.

“No, it’s fine. He...well, we were something of teenage delinquents,” she started to explain. “We ran away, kind of shoplifted our down the East Coast. He was older and dreamy, especially to a 16-year-old girl who’d never had much. I thought he was the one, you know? Everything just seemed...better with him.” She hadn’t known exactly what being soulmates entailed, but for a touch-starved orphan growing up in the foster system—moreso, in a society that placed so much emphasis on physical contact—once she had finally discovered that bliss, she’d given herself over to it fully. The first time he held her hand, she swore there were sparks. When she saw the love in his eyes, it filled her with a warmth that she’d never known before, deep in her soul. He filled her dreams so often, she thought they had to be shared. And making love? To be fair, he was her first, but—damn.

“Aye, I know that,” he added, and that distant look was back in his eyes.

“So, yeah, we’re in love and making plans and just need a bit of extra cash to get us to Florida, where we planned on settling down.” She snorted. “Settling down at 16; god, I was dumb. Anyways, he tried to sell some watches to make up what we needed for a plane ticket, but the deal went sour and...he got shot.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, softly. She could still clearly remember what went down in that ambulance, as they tried to revive him and couldn’t, then her being the only one available to identify the body. “And the rest, I guess, is history.”

Killian chewed on his bottom lip a bit; there was still something on his mind. “Was...was he your soulmate?”

She swallowed again; this was the really personal part. “I don’t know.” The only people she’d admitted that to were close family, and even they remained a bit skeptical—how could she not know? “I thought I was getting lovesickness a few weeks later, but then I found out I was pregnant, so I’ve never really been sure if it was or not.”

Killian’s eyes grew wide for a moment and he studied her solemnly. “So that’s why you cover up? In case he wasn’t?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. It was a little unnerving that he’d figured it out so easily.

“I...uh,” he stammered, nervously scratching at a spot behind his ear. “Um, same.”

“Same?”

“Yeah.”

She hadn’t expected that; she’d never met anyone else who shared her uncertainty. While covering up wasn’t an odd thing, it was usually only done by people who truly hated the idea of the system altogether—not those who had been potentially burned by it.

He took her silence as an invitation to continue. “Her name was Milah; she lived near the base. We met in a pub and it was...a whirlwind, honestly, but she was incredible. And it was like you said: everything felt amazing; I had no reason to believe we weren’t soulmates, save for one minor problem.”

“What was that?”

“She was married.”

“Fuck. Was he hers?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I never got a chance to find out for sure. Once he learned she was cheating on him with me, he messed with her car. I’m still not entirely sure what happened, but we were in it and she lost control; hit a tree. She died on impact; I...well, this.” He held up his prosthetic.

“Oh my god, Killian—I’m so sorry.”

He gave her a sad smile. “The Navy took care of me as best they could, but I was still out of it for a long time as I healed, and dealt with infection and whatnot. I think it was three months or so? So I have no idea if I had lovesickness or not in there. And I...I wasn’t sure I wanted one if it wasn’t her. Thus...” He nodded down towards his attire.

“Yeah.” She definitely understood. 

It took a bit for the weight of the conversation to settle on them; they were quiet for a few minutes, until Emma got fidgety, as if she needed to move to make her thoughts come to a rest. Seriously—what were the odds she’d literally stumble into someone who actually got her? It was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

She shifted in her seat to relieve some of the tension building within, and that’s when she realized just how close they were sitting—she’d barely moved when her thigh brushed against his, heat radiating from it that likely had as much to do with the ambient temperature as her own heightened awareness. As casually as she could muster, she pulled it back, but couldn’t tell if he noticed or not.

“Who knew we’d be trading tragic backstories after only a week?” he finally commented, giving her a gentle smile.

She smiled back. “I’d repeat what I said the other day, but Snow is in earshot. So...cheers?” This time, she was the one to offer up her bottle.

“Cheers,” he echoed, clinking the lip of his against the neck of hers, which gave her some other thoughts she didn’t really want to entertain long at the present moment.

They were both taking long pulls from their drinks when Snow herself came out, almost as if she was summoned. “Don’t you two look cozy?” she commented, unable to hide the twinkle in her eye at the thought. 

“Ew, no, it’s too hot to think about that,” Emma threw back. Between the humid air and whatever had just passed between her and Killian, she was almost thinking about taking off her jacket. Almost.

“Well, how about coming back into the AC for some pie?”

“Sounds perfect, milady,” Killian answered for both of them; Emma usually hated that but couldn’t really find it in her to complain.

Snow shouted at the other guys and headed back in; David and Henry immediately followed, pounding up the stairs to the porch and hardly giving a passing glance to its current residents.

“Shall we?” Killian asked as the screen door banged shut, a sound that was quickly followed by Snow yelling at Dave.

“Yeah; if we dawdle, Snow will get ideas.”

“I’m under the impression that anything will.”

“Also true.”

He chuckled as he stood. The motion made the chair start rocking under Emma, making her jolt—they’d kept it still while they were sitting on it.

Wordlessly, he held out his false hand to her, and just as unconsciously, she took it and stood. She didn’t even think about it until she was back on her feet, and then found herself staring at their joined hands. Even though his was fake, even though hers was gloved, she swore she felt heat.

Her eyes darted up to look at him, to see his reaction—and he too was staring at their joined hands with a bit of awe. Did he mean to do that, and expect her not to take it? Or was it as instinctive as her move was?

Either way, she quickly pulled her hand back and stuck it in her jeans pocket. “Uh, thanks,” she blurted, then turned to head in the house; his heavy footfalls followed her, as did a sense of deja vu.

The rest of the evening went without incident—unless Henry losing his mind to the sound of Killian’s ringtone (the theme to _Pirates of the Caribbean_ ) counted—until Killian got called into work and Emma decided they should head out, too (but not before he insisted on checking on her stitches).

She’d honestly never met anyone that threw her so off balance as Killian. It was so nice to finally have a friend that understood her, so maybe it was just that novelty that was throwing her for a loop. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on, and she wasn’t sure it was welcome.

Oh, well. Once a week—she only had to see him once a week, barring any more emergency room trips. She could do this. They could do this.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

And they did, for a while. The next few weeks, she only saw him at the Nolans, with his charming self and his good beer and his soccer ball, which Henry unsurprisingly took to quickly—her son had the incredible knack to learn anything with ease. Other than a jab at her usual doctor for not taking more care in the way he removed Emma’s stitches, they managed to avoid any other close calls, physically or emotionally—and he seemed just as keen to stay away from those as Emma.

They fell into a pretty casual friendship, and when they weren’t inadvertently baring their souls to one another, she genuinely enjoyed his company, as well as the buffer it gave her against Snow’s constant fairy tale romance ideals. They’d chat about music, movies, books, sports, and he was great with Henry, too—actually, he was almost better with him than she was when it came to what might be classified as Henry’s nerdier interests, like comics and role-playing games. She was dangerously close to being roped into a game of Dungeons and Dragons, with Henry as the DM and Killian as a rogue (or so she was told—she didn’t quite know what that meant).

(Although the idea of Killian as a pirate on an adventure? That was definitely an image that stuck with her, and had been ever since his Captain Hook reference...she kept that private, however.)

Everything was easy until the day she got on the train much earlier than usual, exhausted after an all-night stakeout (that thankfully landed in a nab) and desperate for a seat—and the only one open was right next to a weary-looking Killian.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, standing in front of him.

His eyes darted up warily, but his face broke into a grin when he realized it was her. “Of course, Swan; have at it. I didn’t know you rode this train.”

“Almost every day,” she said as she plopped down. “Just usually not so early.”

“You got the bail jumper that quick?”

“Eh,” she shrugged. “More like it took way too long. Overnight job.”

“Same; you must be beat. At least this one didn’t go for the face.”

She snorted. “Thank god. I almost considered starting to wear a ski mask, but it probably wouldn’t look good if I started dressing like the criminals I’m supposed to be catching.”

He laughed. “Maybe you can in the winter.”

“Maybe. God, I can’t wait for it to get cold again so I can wear scarves without anyone looking at me weird.”

“Right?”

They traded stories about adventures and misadventures they’d had with the way they covered up; his mostly had to do with patients tearing his clothes, although there was one story about a woman who tried to get admitted to the lovesick wing after claiming he’d kissed her when, in all reality, he’d treated her for the flu a week prior and she was just still sick—not an altogether uncommon phenomenon.

“I had a guy try to do that to me once, too,” she told him. “It was several years ago when I wasn’t wearing gloves yet and made the mistake of shaking hands with a furniture salesman; when I went to pick up the stuff a couple weeks later, he was clearly ill and tried to convince me we were meant to be.”

“And you felt completely fine?”

“Obviously.”

“Some people are just that desperate.”

“It’s ridiculous!”

She’d been so caught up in the conversation that she hardly noticed they were at her stop. Nor did the train conductor, apparently, because the brake came on hard. Emma had to grip the pole next to her to avoid being completely thrown into Killian’s side, but was able to lean away enough that only her hip bumped into his. His scrubs must have been terribly thin, because she could feel the heat coming off his body even more than the day they’d been on Snow and Dave’s porch.

“Well, this is me,” she said as she stood. “It was nice seeing you!”

“Wait,” he called, then stood up with her. “This might seem a bit forward, but I was wondering...could I take you and Henry out to dinner sometime?”

She was a bit stunned at the request; she hadn’t been asked out in...well, not since creepy Walsh tried to tell her they were soulmates. But she knew Killian wasn’t looking at it that way. She also knew she had to answer before the train rolled off with her still on it.

“Uh, yeah, sure—we’d love to; when’s good for you?”

“Tonight, tomorrow?”

“I really don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Tonight it is. You know where the Regina Pizzeria is on Cambridge?”

“Of course.”

“6:30?”

“Sounds perfect. See you then!”

She managed to get off the train right as the doors were closing, but glanced back and saw him smiling at her as the train pulled away; she couldn’t help but return it, especially with the way his hair was adorably hanging in his face. He really was cute.

And friends can be cute. Platonically cute. Yes. That’s a thing she’d been reminding herself a lot over the past few weeks.

She immediately passed out when she got home, only waking up to the sound of Henry arriving back from his sleepover at the Nolans. He obviously loved the idea of going out for pizza and seeing Killian, but apparently had some concerns.

“Are you sure he meant both of us? I don’t want to be the third wheel.”

“What the—what?” Where would he get that idea? “Yes, he specifically said your name; and you’re my kid; you’re not a third wheel.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to cockblock Killian.” 

She was stunned. The only admonishment she could come up with was, “Henry David.” 

“What? He totally likes you and you totally like him. I may be a kid but I still have eyes; you’re both so obvious.”

That definitely left an impact on her. Henry knew everything—what happened in the past and why she wrapped up; she assumed he’d figured out that Killian was the same. That that was exactly why they got along: there was no pretense, no double entendre—just two people being friends. (Really good friends, it was turning out to be.) 

Was she sending mixed signals? Was Killian sending some that she wasn’t picking up on? Was she so far out of the game that she didn’t even know what the signals looked like anymore?

This was not the kind of thing she needed on her mind when she was supposed to be having a casual dinner with a casual friend.

“Stop overthinking it, Mom,” Henry called from his room, where he’d retreated. “Just be normal.”

Easier said than done. She walked into the pizza place ready to be a bit more reserved, but then he smiled when he saw them and any resolve she had was left at the door.

And any lingering traces of it disappeared when Henry, in his excitement over something that happened in his last game of D&D, knocked over her water glass—and Killian was the one to rush forward with napkins. For her lap. He set a few on her thigh before realizing what he’d done—and where his hand was—before backing away.

Part of her wanted to tell Henry, “See? He’s not interested.” But that would involve telling him where hands on thighs usually ended up and she wasn’t ready for that conversation anytime soon.

But from then on, Killian was a constant presence. It wasn’t really done by conscious effort; it just kind of...happened. 

Like their weekly tradition with the Nolans, pizza night with Killian became a thing, too, especially with the discovery that he didn’t live all that far away from them—his apartment was just a handful of blocks from theirs. They didn’t stick to just pizza—Chinese and Mediterranean found their way into the rotation regularly, among others—and the day varied depending on work schedules, but they ended up sharing meals at least a couple times a week. 

Every few days, she and Killian would find themselves on the same train, and their 20-minute chats covered everything. He shared stories of growing up in England with Liam; she talked about the revolving foster home doors of her upbringing. He described the oppressive heat and constant fear during his deployment in the Middle East, but the incredible sense of camaraderie with his crew mates; she relayed how scared she was staring at the positive pregnancy test at 17, and even more so during delivery, but the immediate relief and joy at holding Henry for the first time. They discussed their jobs, too—how watching his mother die of illness first pushed him into medicine and the challenges of being a one-handed ER doc, and how she kind of fell into bail bonds when she helped catch the guy who shot Neal after he skipped bail; how now, it helped her bring other people to justice. 

And they traded the tales of their lost loves, which were almost eerily similar in their whirlwind nature and tragic end—not to mention the scars left on their hearts. 

“Do you ever wonder if you made the right choice, though?” Killian asked her one day; he’d just treated a couple brought in after an accident and it was obvious it had hit close to home. “Like...do you ever doubt yourself? With all this?”

It wasn’t hard for her to answer. “Yeah, I do.” The more time passed, the more she wondered if she’d been right in her initial assessment—if there really had been evidence that Neal was her soulmate, or if she’d been off base. “But what’s worse—knowing you had a soulmate and losing them, or never finding them at all?”

Killian nodded. “Too true, lass—too true.” He furrowed his brow in thought, though, as if working up the courage for his next statement. “But what if they were still out there?”

Her heart skipped a beat; was he talking about himself? God, she hoped not (...or did she?). Regardless, it was definitely something she’d thought about, too. “If they are, I’m still not sure. I’ve had enough of being passed over and pushed around for one lifetime; I want to be chosen by someone, not just fated to be with them. So at least I know I had that—for a little bit, anyway.”

He studied her, seeming to soak in her words. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it that way, but...you’re right.”

She never would’ve thought some of the most intimate conversations of her life would take place on a public train, but the way Killian gave her his undivided attention, with understanding in those bright blue eyes, somehow made it feel like they were the only people in the car. 

And he was always so...close. Physically. It was almost as if in their dance around each other trying to avoid touch, they only ended up waltzing closer. There was the time she nearly slipped in Snow’s kitchen after Henry spilled water (again) and he grabbed her by the arm to keep her upright. Or the night he nearly stepped into traffic as they were leaving their favorite sushi place and she had to tug him back by the bicep. Not to mention when they nearly hugged in farewell as they left the Nolans’ one night—especially after Henry had given him a fierce one. It had just felt natural to do the same, but they caught themselves at the same moment. Awkwardly, she offered up her elbow instead, which he gamely bumped with his own, but it was a near miss on both their parts. 

(Emma was still pretending she hadn’t heard Henry mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “oh my god, just kiss already.”)

He was the one to give her a boost when a slip kept evading her. “I’ve yet to see you fail, Swan,” he assured her, and she couldn’t help but believe it. 

She returned the favor when he was upset over losing a young patient. “Trust me—you’ve got more than one mark in the hero column.”

His laugh became one of her favorite sounds. His smile never failed to brighten her days. And she’d never seen someone so good with Henry other than her brother. 

Without anyone really noticing, they’d become part of each other’s lives seamlessly—a fact that finally hit her when he was the first person she texted when she finally caught the elusive skip, not David or Snow like she used to. 

Emma knew that should freak her out in some way. What would happen if Killian got a job out of town? Or if he actually did like her-like her, but didn’t want to deal with her emotional walls and/or possible rejection? (She had no idea how’d she’d respond to that.) Because by late summer, he’d become such a constant that she was having a hard time remembering what life was like before he was in it.

That was a lie; she knew exactly how it’d been: lonely. She knew she didn’t “need a man” or whatever, or even romance, but she couldn’t deny that she’d been severely lacking in the kind of companionship he provided—someone outside her family she could be close to. 

On one of the last Saturdays of the summer, she and Henry were taking Killian on their own version of the Freedom Trail—all the parts they found coolest, at least. They started at Boston Common and had worked their way over to Faneuil Hall, giving Killian plenty of time and opportunity to curse out the statue of Sam Adams for “irresponsibly condemning this city to a lifetime of inadequate, tasteless ale”, before showing him the marketplace. Emma’s heart did a strange stutter when she saw his eyes grow wide at the spectacle ahead of him—it was too adorable. 

And then Henry was shouting something about one of street performers and grabbing Killian’s prosthesis to drag him off to see them. And then Killian, in turn, took hold of her hand at the last second, nearly yanking her arm from her socket as she got pulled away.

She didn’t yelp or cry out, though—she laughed; screamed, even, in surprise and joy as she was dragged along by two of her favorite boys. Killian glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure she was still there, and gave one of the biggest grins she’d ever seen.

The three of them nearly crashed together when Henry came to a sudden stop; she instinctively grabbed Killian’s bicep to brace herself from smacking into him. It took a minute for them to catch their breath, and at the end of it, she realized she was still gripping Killian’s hand in hers. Her palm was sweating in its leather confine, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the way their fingers had so easily intertwined.

Killian must have taken the way she was staring as something other than awe, because as soon as he noticed, he let go and stepped away. He scratched behind his ear—what she’d come to identify as a nervous tick—as he turned his attention on the busker, so she too tried to play it cool.

That was the most physical contact she’d had with someone outside of her family in literal years—that she actually wanted, at least. And she was pretty positive the same went for him.

Despite the heat, she shivered. Was she really considering something that was vaguely romantic? She firmly believed in platonic relationships—in particular, the platonic-ness of theirs—but it wasn’t hard for her to imagine more, especially if her dreams were any indication (they almost exclusively featured him nowadays, and in far less fanatastical settings than they once had). So deep down, she knew there was a (very small) part of her that wanted it.

She attempted to ignore it; it was, after all, just another in their long line of weird clashes that sent sparks through her body, another of which happened later that day when they were eating at Regina Pizzeria (again) and their fingers brushed when she handed him a plate.

And whatever that weirdness was, it didn’t affect their friendship, or his with Henry. As they sat there at their table, enjoying the meal and listening (and laughing) to Henry’s stories about school, the only thing she could really feel was happy. And, she had to admit, happier than she’d been in a long time.

Outsiders would probably make some inferences on their familial appearance, and maybe there was a slight chance it could be like that some day, once she had more time to warm up to the idea; but what they had was perfect, and didn’t need to change.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

As has been stated in the past, however, the universe is a dick.

It was the Sunday before Labor Day, but the standard work week doesn’t mean much for people working in emergency medicine and bail bonds. At least Emma had wrapped up early for the day—nabbed her mark as he was leaving mass, ironically—and hopped on the crowded train, filled with people heading home from church.

“Swan! Over here,” came the familiar shout from the middle of the car; Killian was standing at one of the poles in the middle, his right arm holding it tight and with just enough space next to him for her to slip in. Her left hand came to rest on the pole just below his, and the train shuddered off a moment later; she had to bend her knees to keep from falling into him.

“Well, did you get your man?”

“Yup. And his priest saw the whole thing.”

“Ooh,” Killian winced. “Hope he’d already gone to confession.”

He caught her up on the craziness of his last shift, as had become habit at this point, before moving to his usual simple request for “So, dinner?”

She was ready to say yes, until she remembered. “Oh, sorry—Henry has a sleepover tonight. Last one before school starts.”

“Ahh,” Killian nodded understanding. “Well,” he started, and then his nervous tick came out again, as he scratched behind his ear with his prosthesis and stared at the floor. “My invitation still stands, if you’d like.”

She swallowed. She hadn’t been alone with Killian...well, not since the first day they met, when he cleaned her hand in the Nolans’ half bath. There’d always been someone else there as a buffer.

Not all that long ago, she would have been terrified at the idea. But now...she was kind of excited by it. Or maybe “intrigued” was the better word. She certainly didn’t hate it.

Her walls wouldn’t let her be so obvious, though. “Are you asking me out on a date or something?” she teased, smirking; she also had a bit of extra endorphins running through her system after that morning’s takedown.

“Do you want it to be one?” he tossed back, except he was serious.

She chewed on her bottom lip for a bit; despite all their conversations—despite the fact that he knew basically everything about her—this was the most exposed she’d ever felt with him. “Would it be okay if I did?” she said quietly, only loud enough for him to hear.

A slow smile took over his face, starting in the corners of his eyes and lighting up his whole face. Those butterflies in her stomach began to flutter again at the sight of it, and she could feel her face involuntarily mirroring it—until she was rudely jolted.

Looking back on the moment, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The train slammed on the brakes, which was nothing new, but the car wasn’t usually packed like a sardine. The man behind Emma hadn’t been holding onto anything, so he was sent reeling forward, crashing into her back and pushing her toward Killian, who instinctively put his free arm out to catch her.

She didn’t have time to grab his arm, though, before her chest was colliding with his. Logically, she knew she should be feeling a shock at the collision and no doubt have her wind knocked from her, but all she could feel—emotionally, at least—was a completely foreign rush of worry and, stranger still, love.

 _Fuck_ , she thought.

«Bloody hell,» was the echo within her mind—but that wasn’t her voice. It was Killian’s.

In her brain.

She opened her eyes, not realizing she’d been squinting them shut, only to realize her cheek was pressed up against Killian’s and he still had his arm wrapped around her, holding her close.

Holding her.

Against his skin.

Oh, no.

The train came to a stop just as she jumped away from him; people would probably say it looked like she’d been burned, and she supposed in a way she had been. This couldn’t be happening.

“Emma?” he breathed, eyes wide and incredulous.

“I—I—” she stammered. “I...can’t.”

Not wasting another moment, she turned and ran—off the train, out of the station, halfway home. He’d shouted her name as she was leaving but she didn’t stop. Her phone buzzed several times but she ignored it. She didn’t stop even to breathe until she was in her apartment, with the door locked behind her.

She’d just imagined it, right? He must have said it out loud. She only felt those things because he was hugging her. That was why he was surprised; it had to be.

There was no way that Killian Jones was her soulmate.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading part 2! My plan is to have the last part up on Monday (in a week), but between now and then, I'll be teaching at band camp, so we'll see if I get enough time to finish it. If it's not up then, it hopefully will be shortly thereafter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is--the last one! (This is where things get M-rated!) Thank you for sticking with me on this little adventure; hope you enjoy the last chapter!

Wrong.

So fucking wrong.

More wrong than any other time in her life. 

That first night after the collision on the train, she got drunk on Sam Adams and blamed that on why the barrage of text messages from Killian mysteriously disappeared from her phone.

By Thursday, Henry had asked why they hadn’t yet had dinner with Killian that week. “Because you have school now, mister,” worked as an excuse.

And thankfully, she managed to hide her sigh of relief when Killian wasn’t at dinner at the Nolans, supposedly because he was called into work.

Halfway through the next week, Henry asked if they had a fight or something. “Yeah, or something,” was her lame, mumbled response. “It’s an adult thing.”

That was enough to get him to stop asking questions, though he had plenty of comments after the following Friday’s dinner—she decided that would be the best time to track her latest skip and dropped Henry off to stay with Snow and Dave for the night, and her resolve hardened when she saw the Chevelle in the driveway.

“You know, Killian seemed kind of mopey,” Henry told her when she picked him up the next morning. “Kind of like he did when we first met him.”

“He just gets like that sometimes; maybe it was something at work.”

“Maybe; I dunno. It seemed different. He says hi, though.”

He’d said more than that in the texts she kept deleting. Though those were usually something along the lines of  _ Please, Swan—just talk to me _ .

What she wouldn’t admit was how much those broke her heart.

She wanted to; she really did. She missed him, dammit. But that would mean acknowledging whatever had passed between them as something real, that the whole idea actually had merit, and she wasn’t ready for that level of anything yet. She wasn’t even ready to kiss him, for fuck’s sake; even the title “boyfriend” held more weight than she was ready to carry.

And part of her still was in denial, sure that she’d imagined it because of that little romantic part of her that wanted something more.

She’d learned long ago to ignore that small voice, and she could shut it up again.

She didn’t do soulmates.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

A couple more weeks went by and fall arrived—her favorite. She wrapped up in a scarf on that first day, inhaling the chill in the air and making sure to stop for a pumpkin spice latte. Part of her wondered what kind of scarf Killian was wearing, if he even had one on—and then the rest of her put that idea to rest. 

His texts became more sporadic; she never saw him on the train. He hadn’t been at Snow and David’s the last couple weeks and apparently had been stuck on the night shift for the last month. She was getting better at not thinking about him, but her mind generally wandered in his direction without her realizing it had.

There was a near run-in a week ago at the Chinese place; she saw his name on the receipt of the bag next to hers, and never paid so quick in her life. But otherwise, she’d been Killian-free for a month and was feeling just fine.

See? Nothing to worry about, she assured herself. Maybe in a couple more weeks, she could seek him out again, apologize, and they could carry on like that scare never happened.

But that thought got delayed when she came down with a cold a few days later. She had a headache that wouldn’t go away and was tired a lot more than usual. The kitchen lights seemed especially harsh and there was a lingering bit of nausea that never quite sent her running for the toilet, but was definitely annoying.

“Are you feeling okay, Henry?” she’d ask every day, checking for a fever and his skin for any clamminess. She just needed to touch him, to make sure he was okay; or maybe she was being clingy because he had just started middle school.

“I’m fine, Mom,” he’d say, shrugging her off. “Are you?”

“Yeah, totally.”

Part of her wondered, when the nausea continued for a week without abating, if she was somehow pregnant again. It felt a lot like the early stages. But immaculate conception had only happened once, to her knowledge, so she had probably just picked up the flu somewhere.

She tried to power through it—even going on desk duty at her bail bonds firm (which she rarely, if ever did), but then her hands started cramping up from all the typing and kind of stayed that way. And good lord, that was terrible coffee in there, but she was so parched that she’d take it. She complained about it to Snow, who gave her a sidelong glance that fell somewhere between pitying and knowing, but amazingly gave no lecture. She just gave her a box of rose-flavored tea and a hug. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d been sick in Henry’s lifetime—no one had  _ that  _ good an immune system—but she felt terrible that it was putting her so out of commission (in addition to, you know, feeling terrible).

“What kind of flu did you give me, kid?” she asked, voice hoarse, when Henry brought her tea in bed on her birthday. 

“Maybe it’s something worse, Mom,” he said, and she could see how scared he was. “Maybe you should go to the ER?”

Cold dread washed over her at the mention of the place (or maybe it was just a chill resulting from the recently developed fever; it was hard to tell). “No; I’m not that bad,” she promised, despite how awful she sounded. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll go to urgent care.”

There was one on their block, but she didn’t even have the energy to walk that far. Just getting to her car was draining. Her hand struggled to cooperate with the pen while filling out forms, which included firmly checking the “no” box next to the question asking if she had lovesickness. She had the flu—that was it. 

(Not that lovesickness had any true treatment; even at hospitals, all they could do was put a person on an IV of fluids and pain killers until it was done. So there was really no point in an urgent care even asking. Jerks.)

The doctor asked the usual questions—symptoms, how long she’d had them, and a whole bunch of other stuff that was already on the forms—before actually reading what was on the clipboard, squinting, then looking up at her skeptically. “Are you sure you don’t have lovesickness?”

“Positive,” she snapped back. 

He gave her another incredulous look, shook his head, and wrote her a prescription for a generic antibiotic—which was all she needed, she was sure, and not the judgment of some two-bit doctor with bleached hair. 

She felt better the next morning, after medicine and rest; good enough to go to work, so she started to get ready. See—she’d been right! It was just a bug. Nothing crazy or earth-shattering, just a run-of-the-mill thing. 

Or, at least, that was her last thought before the world turned on it’s axis and she passed out on her bed. 

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

“Emma, are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital? You passed out, for crying out loud!” She could always count on David’s brotherly instincts to border on paternal. 

“I’ll be fine; I promise. I just need to ride it out some more.”

David huffed, clearly not pleased with the situation. She wasn’t thrilled with it, either, but she wasn’t fit to be Henry’s mom until this thing had ran its course, or the antibiotics stopped making her dizzy—whichever came first. Henry was the one who found her unconscious, though she roused quickly; but it shook him enough that she didn’t want him around while she was still this sick. She’d never forgive herself if she got him sick, too. 

“And you’re sure it’s just a bug?”

“Yes! Oh my god,” she rasped out, though it didn’t sound as convincing with her weakened voice. “Go! Have fun! Make sure he gets to school on time, does his homework, et cetera.”

David sighed again, but she could tell from the slump of his shoulders that he’d relented. “Alright; but make yourself some tea and get some rest. We’ll check in on you—no complaints. And if you don’t answer your phone, we’re coming to get you.”

“Fine,” she huffed; that was fair. Henry shuffled out from his room then, with an overstuffed duffel. For a moment, it reminded her of being a kid and her entire life fitting in one of those as she was moved from home to home; her eyes watered at the memory, but she—and Henry—knew he had a home to come back to; this was temporary. “Be good for your aunt and uncle,” she told him, and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead (which seemed a lot closer to chin than it had the day before).

“I will. Please get better soon, Mom,” he said, worry in his voice and his big brown eyes.

“I will. I promise.” 

She couldn’t get worse, right?

Why did she keep saying that? Famous last words, no doubt. 

Because she’d hardly settled on the couch after they left before another wave of vertigo struck and she nearly spilled her tea (of course, Snow had sent another box over). Though it might not have been that bad if she had, because she was also feeling awfully chilled, despite having two fleece blankets draped over her. (If she just gave it an hour, she’d be dealing with a manic hot flash instead.)

But this was better, she knew—Henry would be looked after and she’d be able to heal without anyone bothering her. And it was kind of nice having the apartment to herself for a couple days; that didn’t happen often.

It got dull fast, though. And quiet, oddly enough, even though she was able to watch whatever she wanted on Netflix (Henry hated  _ Outlander _ ; she didn’t).

It was...lonely. Again. Possibly more than ever in her life. It was one thing to not have anyone, like she had when she was a kid. But now that she had people—David, Snow, Henry...Killian, she had to admit—the solitude felt bigger without them there.

And, really, she had no one to blame but herself there. Old habits die hard and all that. As much as she tried to tell herself it was better if they weren’t around her germs, she could also really go for a hug right about now; wrapping her arms around herself didn’t quite cut it.

But this was her bed (well, nest of blankets on the couch) and she had to lay in it until this all passed. At least she had Jamie and Claire to distract her.

So she pulled the blankets a little tighter around her and settled in.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

The next few days passed in a haze of tea, takeout, and the Scottish highlands, though she had to rewatch multiple episodes due to her worsening state and the fact that she kept passing out in the middle (always right before the good stuff, annoyingly). She managed to reply to all of David’s messages fast enough to not cause worry on his end, but that was almost all she had energy for. Bless whoever came up with Door Dash.

And she wasn’t just tired in general—she was tired of being sick. How much longer could one body take to fight off...whatever this was? It had been nearly 6 weeks, all told. The antibiotic script ran out without taking the illness with it. The tea helped a bit, but getting as far as the kitchen to make it was a challenge with the nausea, vertigo, and tunnel vision she was fighting against.

Thank goodness she had an escape on the TV. 

(There were a few strange instances, though, where her foggy mind twisted Jamie’s Scottish brogue into Killian’s accent; and damn did their blue eyes look similar, even if the rest of them didn’t. She may have had a couple of vivid dreams along that line, though.)

But then Jamie and Claire both got lovesickness in season 3. And art started imitating life a bit too much for her liking.

Annoyed, she turned off the TV and pulled herself up from couch so she could shuffle into the kitchen and get more tea.

Fucking  _ Outlander _ . Fucking sassenach. Fucking soulmates. Fucking lovesickness. Fucking Killian.

Not that kind of fucking, though.

Wait, why did her train of thought go there?

Trains...soulmates...lovesick...Killian.

Dammit.

She shook her head as she plopped down on the floor of her kitchen, still wrapped in blankets while waiting on the tea kettle. That was probably a burned bridge, if she was being honest. She hadn’t heard from him in at least two days, so she had to assume he’d given up; it wouldn’t be the first time someone did that to her, but it was probably the most deserved. Try as she might, she still hadn’t forgotten what happened on the train, and she still had no logical explanation for it...save for one.

The kettle was starting to hiss but she ignored it. Had she overreacted? In an effort to avoid what she’d feared for so long, had her own stubbornness and walls just pushed her right into it? Was she really in the same position she’d just seen on her screen...was she lovesick?

A knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts, though; it was probably the pizza delivery. She wasn’t even really sure why she’d picked that to order, though it probably had something to do with Killian being on her mind. It took some struggle to pull herself up off the floor, her stiff muscles protesting each movement, but she managed to get upright with only a minor amount of vertigo; maybe she was getting better, after all?

There was another knock. “I’m coming,” she tried to shout, but her voice could only go so loud. As fast as she could manage—which wasn’t very—she limped to the door, brushed her hair behind her ears in a weak attempt at looking presentable, unlatched the lock, and opened it.

But she wasn’t greeted by the smell of dough and melted cheese, or by an annoying teenage delivery boy—no, that was taking its sweet time, as usual. Her heart actually stopped for a brief moment, because on the other side of the door was Killian.

And he looked as awful as she felt. 

“Emma,” he breathed, a faint smile pulling at his weary features, but it faded fast as a cough took over and nearly rattled him off the door frame he was leaning on.

“Killian.” She nearly choked on his name. “How...how did you find my address?” They’d somehow never been to each other’s places.

“David,” he answered. Normally, he would have shrugged, but it probably hurt too much right now. Like her, he had dark circles under his eyes and sheen of sweat on his forehead that his hair was clinging to. He had on a pair of scrub pants and a black sweater under his usual leather jacket, under which his chest was heaving after no doubt climbing the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Oddly, he didn’t have his prosthesis on. “Can we please talk, finally?” 

Even the blue of his eyes was faded, and that was probably what broke her the most. She nodded and stepped aside, leaving a wide path for him to come in.

He stumbled in and she pointed him towards the couch. “Tea?” she offered, trying to be a good hostess.

“Yeah,” he sighed as he fell against the cushions.

As she poured the tea, she didn’t let herself think of the implications of him being as sick as her. Her walls started to go up and she began to rationalize—he probably picked it up at work; god only knows what kind of stuff he was exposed to there. Maybe she’d gotten it from him when they had their collision?

Very carefully, she moved into the living room and set his mug down on the coffee table, before gently sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. “So, you pick up a nasty virus in the ER?” she started, then took a sip.

He cast her an almost annoyed look before reaching for his cup. “I think we both know that’s not the case, love.”

“You don’t know that,” she murmured. “It could be anything.”

He took a sip, then stared at the tea in disbelief as he swallowed. “Where did you get this?”

Now she was the one confused. “Snow; why?”

He snorted derisively. “And it makes you feel better, right?”

“A bit, I guess.”

“Emma, don’t you know what rose tea is for?”

What the heck—did he come over just to fight? She’d understand if he was angry about her ghosting him, but to be so combative? Her hackles were rising. “No, I don’t, Doctor Jones; enlighten me.”

He cautiously set down the mug and then scooted a bit closer to her; she reflexively tried to melt into the arm of the couch. “It’s an old wives’ tale, but said to ease lovesickness.”

She shut her eyes and turned her head. That couldn’t be it—it just couldn’t. Whatever personal revelation she’d been having before his arrival had ran away, buried under her blankets and armor where it belonged. 

She didn’t do soulmates...right?

“You can deny the truth, love, but that won’t make it any less real. And like you just said, I’m a doctor—I know what’s going on. Has anything else helped?”

Not opening her eyes, she shook her head. She didn’t know if she could handle whatever emotion was likely simmering in Killian’s gaze.

“Just what do you think happened on the train that day?” he asked softly, though it didn’t sound like he had another volume.

“I don’t know—maybe we said it under our breath,” she tossed out half-heartedly.

“That’s not true and you know it.”

She opened her eyes to glare at him. “Well, what if I don’t want it? What if I don’t want the universe telling me who’s right for me—what if I want to be chosen instead?”

Despite their dulled color, a spark of fire ignited in Killian’s eyes. “What are you calling the past few months, then?” he spat. “I don’t know about you, but those were some of the happiest of my life, and it was all because of you and Henry. I want to be chosen, too—you know that. But you can’t tell me you’re so dense that you didn’t notice us doing exactly that. And you can’t deny you’ve been happy, too; you’re too much of an open book.” 

He had her there—it was impossible for her to refute it. Even now, despite the distance she was trying to keep between them, she could feel the pull towards him—she’d missed him so much. But was it just because something was pulling strings somewhere out in the cosmos? Could she trust her own feelings? 

“Tell me, love: were soulmates not even a thing, would you hesitate like this?”

That took her by surprise—but then again, everything about Killian had, since the day they met. She couldn’t deny the thoughts and fantasies she’d had about him; those were decidedly romantic in nature. But in her decision to rebel against the entire system, she’d never considered a scenario in which it didn’t exist. There were plenty of people out there who fell in love without it and were happy, but given what she thought she’d had with Neal, she figured it’d be all or nothing for her.

The longer she thought about it, though, her answer became clear: “No, I wouldn’t.”

Cautiously, he smiled, and it looked like he was blinking back tears—but that could have been due to her own fuzzy vision, and she wasn’t sure if it had to do with her emotions or current physical state. “Then why fight it?”

“Because,” she said in a small voice. “What if it’s wrong?”

“Darling, I think we’re well past that.”

She was scraping for excuses now, she knew, and could feel her walls crumbling under his sweet gaze. They weren’t gone yet, though. “What about Milah?”

His brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone else.”

He slumped a bit, but she couldn't tell if that was due to physical or emotional duress; probably both. “Aye, I had thought for a long time that I didn’t want anyone else, that I’d never be capable of letting go of my first love, of finding someone else.” He chewed on his bottom lip and then looked up at her. “That is, until I met you.”

Her breath hitched. There was no going back from a confession like that.

Silence settled over them for a long minute, during which the revelation washed over her. He wanted her—and had for a while, before they made skin contact and ended up here. And the more she reflected on it, she wanted him, too.

She wanted...all of it. Soulmates, happily ever after, the whole shebang.

Oh, who was she kidding? She fucking loved him.

But she was terrible with words—sincere ones, at least. How did she tell him that?

Gingerly, she shifted closer to him; he flinched a little, likely out of the same reflexes she’d honed over the years, but didn’t back away. His right arm was closest to her, and though he was still wearing his jacket, his hand was uncovered. It was a handsome hand, she had to admit—long, graceful fingers, with well-trimmed nails and fine dusting of dark hair on the back. She wondered if the rest of his was just as good-looking. And now, she was determined to find out.

She reached out and tentatively touched the back of his hand; there was an immediate spark at the contact, though, and she pulled back quickly in shock.

Killian’s eyes grew wide and he stared at his hand for what felt like forever; time seemed to freeze around them. But then, slowly, he turned up his palm and looked at her with an encouraging nod and a soft smile.

Emma sat up straighter, as if that would somehow firm her resolve, and took a deep breath. She could do this, totally. (She hoped.)

With a bit more confidence, she again reached for him, and this time, wrapped her delicate fingers around his broad hand. There was still a jolt, but she was ready for it and held tighter instead of retreating. It was immediately followed that same surge of emotion she’d felt on the train: concern, a bit of fear, but most of all—love.

Though she had no idea how this thing worked, she gave it a try. «I love you,» she thought, intensely holding Killian’s stare.

His eyes somehow got even bigger and his mouth parted in surprise, but it only lasted a moment before he was grinning. «I love you, too, Emma.»

Okay, now she really was crying. She never thought she was that kind of sappy girl and usually made sure her tears were reserved for moments that deserved them (Henry’s birth, Snow and Dave’s wedding, and maybe a handful of TV episodes since then). But now? When she was staring at her apparent true love, once she stopped fighting it? All the waterworks.

«Come here,» she heard over their connection, and he pulled her tight to him—though she may have also launched herself at him at the same time, resulting in an audible  _ oof  _ from both of them as they collided against the cushions.

She nestled her head into the crook of his neck and breathed him in. He smelled faintly of rose tea, a lot like sweat, and then, just...Killian. She couldn’t describe it—it was just...him. And it felt like home.

«You smell good, too.»

She winced. «Oh, shit. You weren’t supposed to hear that.»

«You were thinking it rather loudly, love.»

«This is definitely going to take some getting used to.»

«Aye, but I’m up for the challenge if you are.»

«Definitely.»

She sat up, breaking the connection—and found herself immediately missing it. She hadn’t expected that. As soon as skin contact had been broken, her aches and pains began to come back; she hadn’t even noticed they were gone. But that was how it worked, right? The more intense the lovesickness, the longer it took to go away, even when you reconnected.

She was probably going to have to get him naked, wasn’t she?

While the idea of that, and seeing what hid under all those form-fitting layers, was more than appealing, it also made her panic. It’d been so long since she did anything like this; god, did she even remember how to kiss?

Killian had been watching her intently and must have noticed the panic creeping across her face. Cautiously—as if he was approaching a wild animal—he reached up and caressed her cheek. «It’s okay, Emma. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.»

She huffed. «I don’t even know what I want. It’s been so long; I’m rusty with this stuff.»

«Well, that’s convenient.» He gave her a gentle smile. «So am I.»

She took a deep breath and relaxed a bit, but there was still an urge to do—something. It itched under her skin, the desire to be close to him, especially after he let his hand fall away. 

So, slowly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. 

There was no hesitation on his end; his lips were firm and insistent against hers, and warm—so warm. Any lingering chill from lovesickness melted away at the brush of his soft lips and the feel of his solid form next to her. Which, if she was being honest, was too far away. Using more energy than she had in weeks, she shirked her blankets and moved to straddle his lap. He groaned at the movement, but made no effort to pull away or stop what they were doing. And really, it gave her a bit of a self-satisfied thrill that she could draw that reaction from someone; guess she did still have a bit of game.

«You have plenty of “game,” love—I assure you,» he told her as his tongue flicked against their pressed-together lips.

«Okay, that was a little weird,» she thought; talking and kissing at the same time would definitely take some getting used to.

«Good weird, I hope.»

«Duh.»

They continued to snog like teenagers on the couch, just like she’d once imagined, until the pizza delivery actually did show up. She pulled away to catch her breath, but left her forehead connected to his. «Hope you feel like Pizzeria Regina.»

«With you, darling—anything. Actually, I’m famished.»

«Who knew making out worked up such an appetite?»

He chuckled out loud and it seemed to reverberate through her entire body; that was something that bore revisiting. But she was starving, too, so she hopped up to get the door before the kid inevitably left.

In the few minutes it took her to pay and get plates from the kitchen, she could feel the lovesickness settle back in at an almost alarming rate. She thought it was just the lingering fatigue, but she must have turned to fast after getting dishes from her cupboard because the next thing she knew, the world was spinning and she was on the floor. The nausea was back full-force and food was the last thing she wanted to think about; all she wanted was—“Killian,” she called out, but it was more of a weak moan than a yell. 

From her prone position where the living room carpet met the kitchen tile, she could see him hop up from the couch, alarm tensing his entire body. “Emma!” he shouted, voice similarly weak, and took long strides to get to her—but she could see the moment it hit him, too, when he had to grab for the back of the couch to stay upright.

He took a deep breath but then fell to the floor, seemingly intentionally but she couldn’t quite tell—her vision was swimming again, and she closed her eyes against the blur. She could hear him, though, and a moment later felt his rough palm cupping her cheek. 

He was speaking out loud, but she could feel his panic through their connection. “Emma, love, are you alright? What happened?”

She blinked a few times before staring up at him; he was hovering on all fours, his eyes darting as he looked her over for injury. The longer he touched her, the better she felt; she wasn’t surprised, but damn, they needed to kick this bullshit.

«Agreed,» came his the echo of his voice in her head, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. «Don’t scare me like that again.»

«I’ll try,» she said, «and I’m sorry.»

«You couldn’t help it, love; no need to apologize.»

«No, not just for that—for everything.» The truth of it was that it was that moment that sealed the deal for her. Other than her family, no one had ever worried about her like that, and the surge of love she felt—both from him and her own feelings—when he gave her that gentle kiss was greater than she’d ever felt. «For ignoring you, for fighting this, for letting us get like this. I’m sorry.» A tear started to fall down her cheek; god, she was officially a sap now.

«Oh, Swan—don’t.» He relaxed down to the floor to lay next to her. «I get it—I nearly did the same a few times, too.»

«You did?» She was surprised how much that shocked her; she was used to it from most people, but not him.

«You should have seen the tests I had my friends in the lab running. Everything from cancer to mono.»

«I nearly bought a pregnancy test at one point,» she giggled. «Don’t we make a pair?»

He smiled back. «We do, love,» came the soft voice, and he ran a hand through her hair. «We do.»

She couldn’t help it anymore: the combination of his emotions and thoughts were mixing with hers and threatening to drown her; she hadn’t felt anything this intense since...well, since Neal, but now she realized how wrong she’d been then. Killian was coming to a similar conclusion, she could tell, but she didn’t want to think about anyone else right now—just him.

So she hitched a leg over his hips, closed the space between them, and proceeded to kiss the living daylights out of him. And maybe grind up on him a bit. (Was that still a thing people did? God, she was so rusty.)

«I don’t know, and I don’t bloody care as long as it’s something  _ we  _ do.» Even his voice in her head was wrecked, to match the way he was panting. He tangled his legs with hers to bring himself closer, mirroring her gesture; she forgot how good dry humping felt.

Hell, all of this—it was like her body was coming back to life after a decade of disuse. Killian’s touch, minimal as it was through the layers of clothes they still had on, was sending those same sparks from earlier through her whole being, inside and out. She wanted to feel everything he could make her feel—she needed him, desperately. And if the growing bulge his scrubs failed to hide was anything, he did too.

«Only if you want to,» he assured her, taking a break from their game of tonsil hockey to catch their breaths, but he still pressed his forehead to hers. «I know you wanted your pizza,» he teased.

«To hell with the pizza.»

She held him tight with her leg one more time, feeling the press of his growing erection against her core—where a fair amount of those sparks had settled—before pecking his lips, sitting up, grabbing his hand and forearm, and somehow managing to untangle their legs without hitting any sensitive areas. He followed her to standing, and she quickly tugged him down the hallway to her bedroom; if she giggled a bit at the idea of having a boy in her room after so long, well, that would stay between them.

They’d no sooner crossed the threshold than she was back on him, pressing him against her dresser on the adjacent wall and probably knocking some books or something off, but that was the last thing on her mind; she was too caught up in finding the perfect way to grip his hips and the way his fingers were toying with the hem of her baggy T-shirt, grazing the skin underneath. She was starting to understand how a sparkler felt, with the way his every touch drew a spark.

As they continued to kiss, her hands began to wander, too, and found the edge of his sweater (she had no idea when he’d ditched the jacket, but that was also low on the list of concerns at the moment). His palm was resting warm and heavy on her waist, so she followed suit, letting her touch slip under fabric to his skin, and started to slide upwards.

To her shock, though, he flinched away, putting distance between them—though not enough that she couldn’t still see the way his chest was heaving under his (extremely well-fitting, she saw now) sweater. His eyes were cast on the floor and he was clenching his jaw nervously. 

«Hey, what’s wrong?» she asked gently, but didn’t want to make a move if it might jar him more.

«It’s nothing; it’s just that...no one has seen me like this since...since the accident.»

Oh, god—she hadn’t even thought about that. Here she was worrying about her own skills when there were much bigger issues to be dealt with—on both ends, probably. «We don’t have to.»

«No, I want to,» he assured her, finally meeting her gaze again. «I just remembered all of a sudden, and...I’m afraid it’s not all that pretty.»

Well, she knew a thing or two about having scars. But she hadn’t given them much thought until now; they didn’t really bother her all that much. Which, she supposed, meant only one thing. 

«Then let me go first.»

He tried to protest, but she ignored it as she guided his hand up her side, encouraging him to go higher. They both stilled when he reached her bare breast—she’d forgotten she hadn’t bothered with a bra in several days, and he wasn’t expecting the lack of obstruction when his thumb grazed her nipple. She sensed an odd combination of panic and thrill coming from him, and a polite apology started to form, which was when Emma found the lone downside to having an almost telepathic connection with her soulmate: she couldn’t shut him up with a kiss.

«But you can keep trying,» he suggested, winking terribly. His deep chuckle echoed in her mind and goosebumps rose on her skin.

He left his hand on her breast while she shimmied out of her top, moving only far enough away to slip it off and toss it aside. The cooler air plus her growing arousal were evidenced by her peaked nipples, and she didn’t miss the way his gaze drifted south.

And in one swift motion, she slid off her oversized pajama pants, letting them fall to the floor and leaving her completely naked.

His hungry gaze darted around, scanning her body, and for a moment, the same self-consciousness he was feeling slipped in—no one had seen her naked in ages, either, not since before Henry was born; she was by no means out of shape, but pregnancy had left its marks, in addition to all the other ones she’d acquired over the years. For the first time in a long time, she felt somewhat exposed—but the feeling evaporated under his reverent stare.

«You are bloody stunning, love; every part of you.» He pulled her closer and placed yet another soft kiss against her temple; she didn’t think she’d ever get tired of those, or the accompanying wave of love that threatened to drown her with each one. He took a deep breath, then, «I suppose it’s my turn, then?»

«Only if you want.»

He swallowed. «Lend me a hand?»

She giggled. «Of course, but you have to promise to never make a hand joke again.»

«We’ll see.»

She could kiss the smirk off his face, at least, and proceeded to do so as her hands made their way back to his waist and slipped beneath his sweater. Slowly, she dragged upwards, his sweater bunching at her wrists as she uncovered his stomach. She was curious to look, but didn’t want to pull away until she needed to.

Her fingers were the first to discover the hair on his chest as they slid through it; it was thick and soft to the touch—a contrast to the firm muscles beneath. Despite all her dreaming, that was a detail that never quite worked its way into her fantasies—she’d never much cared for it before—but now, it seemed to perfectly fit him. And she was anxious to see it.

She’d gone as far as she could on her own, her hands coming to rest on his collarbones, her thumbs settling into the dips there. Killian took over then, lifting his arms to tug off his left sleeve above her head and not breaking the kiss until he was pulling the shirt off altogether—and then her breath was nearly stolen.

Killian may have said she was stunning, but he was fucking gorgeous. He wasn’t one of those ripped gym rats, like she had once thought he’d be, but he was clearly strong—a solid core and lean muscles, with biceps that looked like they could both hold her hips tight in the throes of passion and then cuddle her close after. Dark hair perfectly covered his pecs and drew a trail down the center of his stomach, disappearing into the scrubs that he absolutely needed to take off. And there were scars, yes—scattered around his upper body, but most obviously at the end of his left arm—but if anything, they just made him more...real.

«Did you doubt I was?» he ribbed. (Which, speaking of ribs, she could just see the outline of his, and knew hers were on similar display—a reminder of how bad things had gotten for both of them; never again, though.)

«I dunno; this all kind of seems like a strange dream come to life.»

He stepped closer and placed his hand and wrist on her waist. «A good dream, I trust?»

«An incredible one, but one that I never really dared to hope for.»

He placed his forehead on hers—another gesture she was coming to adore. «I know the feeling.»

For a long moment, they just breathed each other in and floated in the swirl of their shared emotions going back and forth; she was starting to lose track if the love she felt cresting in her heart was her own for him or his for her. It seemed endless, though, so as long as it never ran out, it probably didn’t matter what belonged to who.

«I can assure you, it won’t run dry.»

«Good.»

She reached for his shoulders again and pressed against him, finding his lips for what felt like the hundredth time—and she hadn’t had enough, not at all, nor would she likely ever. But, as she arched her pelvis up against too many layers of cotton, she knew she’d had enough of these damn scrub pants.

His laughter rang in her head as she ignored any rules of propriety and ran her hands down his back until she hit the elastic band of his pants and dipped under them, right to his bare (well, slightly fuzzy) cheeks and gripped. That brought him even closer to her, his chest hair brushing against her nipples and his erection pressing into her core. 

«These really need to come off.»

«There’s nothing stopping you.»

«Thank God.»

She wasted no time in slipping them off his narrow hips, barely waiting for them to hit the floor before she was changing their direction, only pausing long enough for him to step out of the legs lest he trip, before she was pushing him in the direction of her bed. The back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress and he tried to sit, but she stayed on top of him until he fell back against the bed with her straddled over his hips. She could feel his cock pressing against her waiting entrance, but not at all in the way she wanted—no, needed him.

«Can’t I properly lavish you, my love?» he enquired coquettishly as he massaged her breast with his hand and brought her closer to his level with the other arm. «I want to make you feel good.»

God, that sounded amazing, and she wanted to reciprocate. But him pulling her flat to his chest had just made it more painfully obvious that he wasn’t inside her, and that was all she wanted. She was more than ready—he had to be aware of that—and logically, she knew that was the fastest way to dispel whatever was left of their lovesickness. (That, and she’d gotten a good look at his shaft when she’d pulled his pants off and— _ damn _ .)

«Next time—I promise.» She was panting with want. «But right now, I need to feel you.»

He nodded; he was just as breathless. «Okay; where do you want me?»

«On top.»

«As you wish.»

Smoothly, he flipped them over so that she was flat on her back and he was hovering above her, propped on his left forearm. He placed one last, long kiss against her lips, then sat back on his haunches to ready himself.

A bit of nervousness snuck in here—she really hadn’t done this since...well, probably not since Henry was conceived. She knew she needed to lift her hips up a bit and would need to help him out, but did she remembered how to set the rhythm? How to meet him thrust for thrust?

«We’ll figure it out together, love,» he said with a soft smile and gentle caress of his blunted wrist on her thigh. He was a bit nervous, too, but knowing they were in the same boat made it all the easier.

And then she watched as he stroked himself and anything other than desire faded away. Her own fingers unconsciously drifted to her clit and began stroking, needing some sort of relief.

When he was ready, he shifted forward into the open embrace of her legs. «You ready?»

«So.»

«Can you…?»

“Yeah,” she breathed out loud; it still took some conscious effort to communicate nonverbally and her brain power was becoming increasingly limited. But she sat up enough to take her own hold of his velvety cock—one she could not wait to take in hand and mouth at a later date—and guided it to her entrance, circling it gently.

They were both a bit anxious about what came next—would it feel like the first time all over again?—but she nodded at Killian to go ahead, and he slid inside in one smooth motion.

Oh, God—she’d forgotten what this felt like. Yeah, she had her toys, but nothing could replicate the feel of the real thing: the heat, the smell, the emotion. This was exactly what she needed—exactly who she needed.

«You feel bloody amazing, darling.» They hadn’t even started moving and already, he sounded wrecked.

«So do you, oh my god.»

She pulled him down by the neck to kiss him again, taking a long moment to get used to the feel of him, even though in some ways, he felt familiar—like he was a perfect fit.

«I mean, we are soulmates,» he reminded her.

«Yeah, but I didn’t think that applied to body parts, too.»

«I fail to see any negatives here.»

«Oh, definitely not.»

He turned the attention of his lips to her neck, tickling her with his stubble, which made her squirm—and then gasp, because it drew just the slightest bit of friction where they were joined together. And it felt incredible.

«That good, eh? We barely did anything.»

She wrapped a leg around him and pressed her foot against his ass, moving him again. «No more teasing; just move.»

It took longer than she’d care to admit for them to figure out the right pace—being soulmates didn’t mean they were automatically in sync (which was probably descriptive of their entire relationship)—but they eventually got there, to a point where she could meet him at every push and he found the perfect angle to hit every sensitive point inside. He groaned when she clenched, and she moaned whenever he pressed hard enough to brush her clit. And in no time at all—but also possibly forever? Time was weird—she was near the edge of release, so close to falling off. 

«Let go, Emma; I want to see you come.»

«I want you to go with me.»

He let out a deep exhale. «I’ll try.» 

He picked up the pace and her already racing heart struggled to keep up with it, but in the end, she couldn’t; she reached her peak and crested it with a shout, fireworks going off behind her eyes as he continued to thrust into her.

It didn’t take much longer for him to follow her, though, and even though she was caught up in her own rapture, she could feel him stutter as he climaxed and spilled into her. (Good thing she still took the pill, if only for the cycle regularity.) He was dangerously close to collapsing on top of her but still, she held him tight with her legs, as if he might disappear if she didn’t.

But he was done depressingly soon, and her legs were no match for the dead weight that was leaning against them as he fell to her side on the mattress. Every part of her was tingling, as if each cell in her body was renewed after that. She cracked an eye open, and despite the dim light coming through her bedroom curtain, Killian was nearly effulgent as they lay there in the afterglow. She knew they needed to clean up, and probably text David so that he knew they weren’t dead, but that could be dealt with later; right now, she just wanted to soak this in.

Killian reached across the short distance between them and pulled her tight to his chest; she was right—those biceps were perfect for being held. «How was it?» he asked shyly.

«Only the greatest orgasm of my life; how about you?»

He smirked. «Roughly the same, I think.»

She placed a gentle peck on the scar on his cheek. «I love you.»

«I love you, too.» He sighed and snuggled into her neck. «Now what?»

«We’ll deal with that later,» she sighed. «Right now, this is perfect.»

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

«You were wearing this when we met,» he thought as he wrapped himself around her from behind, adorably resting his chin on her bare shoulder.

She was getting dressed—after round 2, where they did get to lavish each other, then round 3 in the shower—into a very familiar blouse and rather unseasonable pair of shorts; he’d only gotten as far as his pants. 

«Mhmm. This is what I was going to wear, until I found out some random guy was gonna be there. Couldn’t run around exposing myself like that, now could I?»

«I don’t know; might have saved us a lot of time.»

She turned in his arms and hugged him tight, loving the feel of his warm skin under her palms. «No, probably not. I was nowhere near ready then.»

«And now?» he asked; even if they weren’t communicating verbally, his facial expressions—including the signature quirk of his eyebrow—remained the same.

«Ready for anything.» She emphasized it by rising on her toes to give him a quick kiss. «But if you don’t get a shirt on soon, David is gonna send a search party.»

«Let him,» Killian smirked, and made a move to plant a kiss on her neck that she narrowly dodged, only by jumping away; of course he’d noticed she was ticklish there.

“I’m serious, Killian!” Now that she was getting used to their telepathic connection, it felt like was the first time she’d used her voice in ages; at least she was laughing as she chastised him. “I walked in on him and Snow enough and as much as I might like the idea of revenge, I do NOT want to subject Henry to that.”

He brushed a tendril of hair off her shoulder, but left his hand there and gave her a beyond cheeky smirk. «It’s bound to happen at some point.»

She just rolled her eyes. «Put your damn shirt on.»

Somewhere in there, they had let David know they were alive and would be heading over shortly. They made no mention of the other, though; Killian would join them later, after he went home to change, and honestly—they just wanted to see the reaction, especially from Snow. She did worry a bit about Henry, but knowing how good they were together kept her concern to a minimum. 

After Killian pouted some more but eventually complied with her request for clothing (one of the few times she’d ever have to ask, she hoped), she drove him over to his building—which really was close, but he’d taken a Swyft to her place. They shared a quick kiss goodbye and then she was alone. 

It was surprising how quickly that empty feeling came over her again now that she was by herself—how quickly she’d gotten used to his presence, particularly over the last few life-changing hours, but the past months as well. Hopefully, the cops weren’t around, because she pressed the gas pedal a little bit harder—she couldn’t wait to see everyone again. Now that she knew for a fact there was someone else on her side—that she didn’t have to isolate herself anymore—she didn’t want to at all. 

At least it was a short drive, and Henry was waiting for her on the front porch when she pulled up to the house. “Mom! I missed you!” he shouted as he ran for her, then grabbed her in a bruising hug. God, it seemed like he’d grown half a foot in the last few days. 

“I missed you too, kid.” But it took the same amount of effort as usual to kiss the top of his head, so at least she hadn’t missed anything. 

She did feel a bit guilty that she’d still managed to succumb to the one thing she’d worked so hard to avoid, but at least she knew it would never happen again. 

“You’re all better now?” he asked in a hopeful voice. 

“Yup; all better. And I promise to not let myself get that sick again.”

“Good. I was ready to sick Killian on you.”

She snorted; that was not something she was going to try to verify nor dispute. And he didn’t notice, thank God; it was bad enough he knew what cockblocking was. He just dragged her to the backyard, where Snow and Dave were waiting. 

Their immediate grins turned over to a bit of shock, probably at her outfit; she was definitely dressed for summer, and while it was unusually warm for the last week of October, it was barely 70 degrees. But she hadn’t felt the breeze on her skin in so long, and hey—she had a point to make. 

“Well, don’t you look...summery,” Snow assessed as she gave her a hug; David was, per usual, at the grill. “Oh, but I forgot to tell you: Killian’s coming too.”

Snow was a terrible liar: she hadn’t forgotten at all. If the not-so-hidden gleam in her eye was any hint, this was yet another matchmaking scheme. But Emma could play along this once. 

“Oh, okay,” she shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I’ll keep my space.”

Henry was catching her up on what he’d learned at school that week and the latest drama with his friends when Killian arrived. She was trying her damnedest to keep up with what Henry was telling her about his science class, but Killian’s presence was exceedingly distracting—especially with the way he sauntered in wearing a form-fitting t-shirt that both hugged his biceps and revealed a peek at his chest hair, and khaki shorts that showed off his calves. Even though she knew what lay underneath all that, she could still feel the pull of arousal.

She turned her focus back to Henry as Killian greeted Dave and then Snow, trying her best to play it cool. If that was a thing she could still do (probably not). But it was like every part of her was in tune with him now, and couldn’t help but react when he made his way over to the table they were sitting at.

“Is this seat taken?” he enquired, nodding at the chair next to Emma.

“Go ahead,” she said, unable to keep a hint of a smile off her face.

But he didn’t get a chance to sit before Henry had hopped up and wrapped him in a hug, too. Any lingering worries about Henry’s potential reaction immediately disappeared as she watched the tender interaction between them, on both their ends—they’d both clearly felt the absence of the other, so now she was feeling a bit guilty instead.

Like she’d told herself earlier, though: it wouldn't happen again.

They took their seats on either side of her—Killian on her left, Henry on her right—and Henry relaunched his stories. Aside from some light footsie, they hadn’t made contact yet, though his arm resting on the surface of the table was only inches from hers. Eventually, Henry realized that all the parts of Killian’s prosthesis were exposed, so that gave her an opportunity to make a move, when Killian was leaning over the table to show it to Henry.

Surreptitiously, she let her forearm touch his, where he was bracing himself on the table with it. The only indication he gave that he noticed was the brief straightening of his spine, but she immediately sensed his emotions again—happiness, a bit of hunger, but mostly love.

«I missed you,» he told her while Henry was inspecting the mechanics of the prosthesis.

«It wasn’t even an hour,» she teased.

«Are you trying to tell me you don’t feel the same? Because I can tell that’s not true.»

«No, I definitely missed you, too.»

The connection was broken when he sat back down—when Snow brought the food over. She proceeded to mother hen them as she distributed the food, making sure they were both feeling better—and asking some pointed questions about the rose tea.

“Yeah, it did help a lot,” Emma gushed.

“Aye; thank you, milady,” Killian added, ever the gentleman.

Snow seemed pleased, but there was still a level of concern in her manner that anyone could see; she didn’t think her plan was working, to which Emma hid her smirk in a bite of hot dog. (She could see wheels turning in Henry’s head, though.)

She and Killian continued to act cool to each other through the meal, save the occasional brush of the leg under the table (which was mostly to laugh at Snow’s matchmaking attempt).

Finally, Snow left with Henry to take the dishes inside and David cleaned up the grill, leaving them alone. She put her shin against his leg again while pretending to look at her phone.

«Do it when she comes back?» she proposed.

«Yeah, but wait for her to set the pie down; I’d hate for her to drop it.»

«Good point.»

And so, casually, once Snow had brought the pie to the table and made the first cut, Emma wrapped her hand around Killian’s and waited for everyone to notice. 

“Emma, do you want ice...OH MY GOD.”

There it was: the reaction they expected from Snow. She’d dropped the serving knife, which landed with a clatter on the table, and was staring at their joined hands with wide eyes and jaw hanging open. Eventually she blinked and slammed her mouth shut, but continued to stare at them. 

“But—you were—” she stammered, a pointed finger drifting between the two of them. “I thought—I didn’t—”

Emma was trying really hard not to laugh and could feel how amused Killian was, too. David just looked confused, and Henry was a bit slack-jawed, though she could tell it was in a good way.

Then it was like a lightbulb went on in Snow’s head, and she turned to David. “I called it! I totally called it!”

She then fell into girlish squeals while David, instead, levied a wary eye on Killian. “Is this why you wanted their address?”

“Um, yeah.” 

David squinted. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Killian answered.

Henry piped up. “Do  _ I  _ wanna know?”

“Absolutely not!” Emma cut in.

All eyes were on Henry, though, as he stood and walked around Emma’s chair to Killian.

“Do you love my mom?” he asked, with all the severity a 10-year-old boy could muster.

“I do,” Killian said, and it almost sounded like a vow.

“And you promise not to hurt her, or to run away on us?” She didn’t miss the way he said “us”; she was a little surprised they hadn’t discussed it, but Killian knew he was getting a package deal—he had from the beginning.

“I’d rather be sent to the depths of Hades.”

«Drama queen,» she told him, but Killian’s eyes only flickered over to hers for a moment as he continued to hold Henry’s stare.

“Okay then,” Henry nodded, then seemed to think for a moment before launching himself at Killian again. “Welcome to the family.”

She didn’t need their connection to know how that made Killian feel: his eyes grew wide for a moment, but then they closed and he returned the hug full-force. She’d had the same reaction when she was adopted all those years ago; and though this was a totally different situation, it was still the same emotion.

Snow wanted all the details, obviously, and David and Henry wanted none, so they complied until the sun set and it was time to go home, both of them feeling the chill in their weather-inappropriate wardrobes. 

They stood by their cars, locked in an embrace—both because of a desire to stay close and desire to get warm. 

«Well, that went reasonably well,» he decided.

«Yeah, pretty good. I expected a bit more screaming though.»

«Same,» he chuckled.

«When can I see you next?» This was the part she wasn’t looking forward to; they weren’t in any danger of lovesickness again—not if she had anything to say about it—but there was still the reality that they had different jobs and different homes. (For the time being, at least.)

He shrugged. «We never got to enjoy that pizza. Maybe we try again tomorrow night?»

«Sounds perfect.» She underlined it by rising to her toes to place a lingering kiss on him.

“Are you guys gonna be like this all the time now?” Henry called out from the other side of the Bug, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.

“Yup,” she yelled back. “Get used to it.”

“Ugh, fine,” he grumbled, but it was half-hearted; she could hear the happiness in his voice.

«Well, we shouldn’t try to scar him too much.»

«That’s a change in tone from earlier.»

«I didn’t have his approval yet. Didn’t you hear? I’m part of the family now.» She could really fell his joy at that now.

«You already were; you know that, right?»

«It’s nice to have confirmation.»

«Yeah, I know.» She kissed him again. «And I hope you never doubt it again.»

He was the one to pull her close this time, stealing her breath with a kiss that she hoped would get her through the next day. «Not as long as I have you. I love you.»

«I love you, too,» she sighed. «Onto the next adventure?»

«After you, love.»

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

It wasn’t like a switch was flipped and they were just happy-true love all the time. There were still bumps in the road, they had their share of fights, and their past fears and walls still haunted them on occasion.

Several months passed before they moved in together—months that didn’t look all that different from the previous ones, save for the regular sleepover. They couldn’t decide whose apartment to move to, but Henry was the one to quash that dispute when he found a house for sale a couple streets over from Snow and Dave.

They were almost always touching when they were together, and even more so once they lived together—and their connection only grew. She didn’t realize that it could, but the longer they were together, the more impossibly in tune they became.

And she finally got to experience shared dreams—for real this time. And it was mostly amazing, but people with baggage like theirs didn’t only have sweet dreams; they had nightmares, too. More than once, she saw the crash that took Milah, and Killian saw Neal’s death several times. The worst ones were when the two became melded together and they dreamed about losing each other; those were the nights they came together to make sure the dreams weren’t real—to feel the other there.

Granted, that wasn’t the only time they got it on—they did that fairly regularly and with vigor, which was probably why their daughter, Hope, came along sooner rather than later. 

(But not before Snow got to plan their wedding, at least. They’d been right: she started the binder the day they met.)

All told, it was...perfect. It was both everything she expected and nothing like it, and she wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it had taken her so long to warm up to the idea.

«You just hadn’t met me yet,» Killian teased, standing behind her on their patio and looking out over their backyard. Snow and David were there, with their son Leo toddling after Hope and Henry chasing them both around. Maybe it was a cliche, but she was pretty sure this was what happily ever after looked like.

«Nope, I hadn’t,» she confirmed, and pulled his arms a bit tighter around her. «I love you.»

«I love you, too.»


End file.
